


The Firefly of Rivain

by TheTiniestGiant



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gets quality in the 3rd chapter. Early probs deserves a rewrite at this point, Inquisitor with a lore heavy past, M/M, Orlais, Revenge, Rivain (Dragon Age), Rogue Tempest Inquisitor, Romance, mentions of oc, poor communication skills, pro-mages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-05-19 17:52:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19361743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestGiant/pseuds/TheTiniestGiant
Summary: “As irresistible as I know myself to be, don’t you have a reputation to mind?”Absolutely shameless, he leaned closer, put his lips near Dorian’s ear to whisper. “Does it bother you I’m touching you or that people can see me doing it?”What a terrible question.“Don’t tell me you gained some respectability when I wasn’t looking.”No. No, Dorian had not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey kids. Since I never met a story I couldn't jam unnecessary amounts of overly elaborate plot in, I present to you my new fic in all its terrible glory. 
> 
> I swear it's not as much of a hassle as it looks
> 
> # change of sequence and change of perspective  
> = change of sequence; same perspective  
> \+ change of perspective within the same sequence  
> \- same perspective within the sequence

Revered Mother Helena lie dead. Her mutilated body still bled, the assassination could not have taken place longer than eight minutes ago. The perpetrator came, tortured her, killed her, and left in a twenty minute window, likely the only time Helena would be alone until the end of the Conclave.

Although not given to presumptions, Leliana was familiar enough about the killer to know he took one eye at the beginning and the other right after the killing blow. He wanted her to watch.

Each finger severed from both hands and both hands severed from the body, the assassin worked quickly, quietly, and with precision. Leliana suspected had he the time, he would have removed her shoes and done the same to her toes and feet.

One need not be an expert in death to know the cause of hers. From under her jaw to past her pelvis, a perfect, single line sliced through her robes, through her skin, and into flesh. As if Leliana needed anymore tells, adult carrion beetles crawled from her guts and under her clothes.

Gemma always did have a flare for the dramatics.

One of the greener agents gagged. Face too stony to be a scowl, but annoyed enough to show, Charter pointed to the corner for him to vomit. 

Quiet enough it could not be heard over the splattering of stomach contents, Leliana instructed Charter. “Locate Grand Cleric Kathlin and divert our people from the area.”

Charter swallowed subtly, but enough Leliana knew she bit back questions.

“Revered Mother Penelope will need protection. Orders are to defend her should an attack occur, but no one is to attempt an apprehension.”

Charter nodded.

Later, Cassandra might ask where Leliana had been, why she was not caught in the explosion. With Divine Justinia’s death Cassandra would be the only one who knew enough to ask. However, the Right Hand need not know what the Left Hand does. Whatever Leliana’s response, the truth, a lie, or no answer at all, Cassandra would accept it. Of that Leliana could be certain.

Gemma’s life depended on it. Not for the first time, Leliana wondered why she bothered with him. As with every time before, the thought made her smile.

#

Gemma fucked up. It was getting to be more a way of life than a habit, but if this angry Seeker had anything to say about it, it’s a life that would be ending, so Gemma wasn’t all that concerned about it. The Seeker seemed convinced whatever mess currently existed was his fault, and while Gemma had no memories following branding the sign for Tranquility onto the forehead of Revered Mother Penelope, he felt inclined to agree.

Still, despite how bad he tended to be at it, he tried to be honest with her. Or he intended to. Somehow he ended up not saying anything at all.

Then she walked in.

For a moment he held Leliana’s eyes in silence. Then the Seeker interrupted, shaking him and demanding answers he didn’t have. Leliana stopped her, reminded her they still had need of him, whatever that need might be. Although she gave no indication of it, and although they both wore masks last they met in the Grand Game, Gemma was certain Leliana recognized him.

He hid his smile from the angry Seeker. It had been a long time since he smiled, a longer time since he played the Game, longer still since he believed in the Maker, but if this is where his path led, he would dance with Leliana again.

#

Well, that was just obnoxious. 

Gemariah Nazarius Trevelyan. Even his name was obnoxious. While Dorian didn’t make a habit of judging someone based on name or looks alone, he was less reluctant to judge when taking both into consideration.

With a name that had no business in the Free Marches and an appearance that looked nothing like nobility, the Herald of Andraste had no right to exist. Hm. Perhaps that was harsh, but really, the nerve of him.

Although he held the name of Trevelyan and Dorian sincerely doubted Lady Nightingale would be as sloppy as misidentify him, he spoke charmingly generic. The closest indicator of his heritage was the slight slip of a Rivain accent when exhausted. 

Rivain. Much too light skinned to be full blooded with far too many manners to have spent all of his life there, Dorian figured him for a bastard. Whatever noble blood he might have apparently didn’t earn him the right to a noble’s livelihood.

Although he could not be more than forty, his hair had prematurely grayed to almost white. Scars littered his forearms and face, most small, little cuts or nicks, but collectively hard to ignore. The three most impressive scars from ear to chin, down his windpipe, and from wrist to elbow, could not be overlooked at all.

Whatever life he lived before the Inquisition could not have been easier. Haggard, he shambled about Haven like the ghost of an old man. Which was ridiculous considering how nimble he had been in the Redcliffe Chantry, faster than Dorian could follow in the thick of battle, striking like lightning in a typhon.

Even if he watched the world through old knowing eyes, Dorian was certain he was younger than he acted.

Obnoxious. Dorian wasn’t sure who the show was for, but it certainly went unappreciated as far as he was concerned. He had about had it with the slow old man routine. They needed to take action now, before Alexius decided to execute whatever insane plot he had in mind.

Because apparently the threat of devastation by time magic was completely lost on him, Dorian decided it was in the entire world’s best interest to go remind Gemariah Nazarius Trevelyan. 

Careful not to slip on the grime and dust coating the Chantry stairs, Dorian navigated his way down to the cellar. Ah. A dungeon. Lovely. A bit farther down the dank underground, lantern light glowed warmly, casting shadows of jail bars and two people. One shadow stood, a tidy figure, hands folded behind her back, and the other sat, hunched, looking up at her.

While impolite to eavesdrop, Dorian didn’t necessarily go out of his way to indicate his presence as he--not crept-- padded closer.

“Your near death experiences are becoming much too commonplace, Gemma,” Lady Nightingale said, tone teasing, “let us try to keep the number in the single digits, hm?”

“So little faith for one so devout, Leliana.” The Herald laughed, soft, but warm.

“My faith is in the Maker, not a scoundrel who plucks hearts like a harp,” she pretended to chide. “Witnessing three of your infamous almost fatal incidents was enough for me. I needn’t see another after falling out of the Fade too.”

“Orlais was a long time ago,” he replied, but didn’t deny breaking hearts or mortal peril. “All the duke’s money couldn’t kill me. A little magical explosion hardly had a chance.”

“I’m glad you survived,” she said quietly.

Trevelyan didn’t answer.

“Come to the war table when you’re ready, Gemma. Until then I trust Lord Pavus will keep you company.”

Saving face being second nature, Dorian pretended he hadn’t been skulking. Shameless, he breezed past the spymaster and into the cell as if invited. Effectively appearing disaffected, Dorian shot off a half-lie with carefully calculated nonchalance.

“So gracious of you to announce my arrival, I would so hate to have been missed.”

Lady Nightingale smiled so innocently it gave Dorian chills.

“Lord Pavus,” Trevelyan greeted warmly, as if truly pleased with his presence. “I didn’t think you’d come down here.”

“I must admit, it is rather musty. Quite filthy. Offensive really. Are those books legible or has the mold eaten the pages away?”

“I shall leave you two to it.”

Presumably she bowed out, but Dorian was too busy making a show of being unimpressed to watch her go.

“Truly, out of all the filthy little holes in the mud hovel that is Haven, I believe you managed to find the filthiest one. How depressing.”

Suddenly, Dorian forgot what direction he was taking his not so passive passive-aggressive stream of consciousness. Taken aback, he could not help but be entirely absorbed by whatever it was the Herald’s face was doing. Outright unnatural. The corner of his lips quirked in the slightest curve, the scars cutting through lips doing nothing to diminish-- Sweet Andraste, he was smiling. Even worse, he was handsome.

Shocking really.

Dorian squinted at him through the dim light. “Maker, are you smiling?” 

Affable as always, he only gave a slight shake of his head and a quiet laugh. “Would you believe there was a time when people found me pleasing?”

Yes. Yes, Dorian could very easily believe that. Dorian found him very pleasing. Dangerously pleasing. Endearingly unthreatening and so sweetly accommodating. 

“Hm. Doubtful.”

Maker preserve him. Trevelyan was doing it again. Smiling. The madman.

“Stop that. You look ridiculous.”

Another shake of his head and he hid his smile by turning on his stool, back to the table where he worked. Dorian stared at the back of his head. Although Trevelyan did exactly as Dorian asked, he had been teasing. Everyone in the south was just so dour. Shaking himself from the strange disappointment, Dorian took a moment to glance around the room he barged into. It had been unexpected even for him.

Most of it was rubbish, nonsense expected of Chantry cloisters. A writing desk, tomes of theology and prayers, a moldy pile of what might have been robes, stacks of books, shelves of books, all items were no doubt ruined by decades of neglect.

However, Trevelyan worked on a clean surface. Yes, it was rickety and old, its ricketyness only challenged by the stool in which Trevelyan sat, but the top had been scrubbed clean and a mat set over it. A number of flasks sat on top, lined up in neat rows behind an alchemy set Trevelyan now utilized.

Still maintaining his facade of mild interest in overall disinterest--because how alarming was it that Dorian was actually interested-- he resisted craning his neck to look over Trevelyan’s shoulder.

“Alchemy in such dim light? How daring.”

Either a laugh or a sigh, Trevelyan continued with his task with mechanical precision, not even pausing to measure.

“I suppose.”

“You suppose.”

“After years of mixing the formulas my hands remember as well my eyes. Sometimes circumstances require my eyes elsewhere.”

“Is this supposed to be impressive?” Because Dorian was impressed. Dorian didn’t even know what he was doing and he was impressed.

“I suppose it depends on if you’re impressible.”

Avoiding the fact, yes, Dorian was apparently very impressible, he asked, “so what is it you are doing?”

A beat of silence and then, “mixing elixirs.”

“How very vague.”

“Five hundred millimeter flasks of my original formula,” he elaborated, as amused as he had been with the spymaster, “fire, frost, lightning, the art of the Tempest.”

“Ah.”

Trevelyan felt no need to reply. Of course, Dorian pressed.

“As far as reputation goes, I’ve come to understand Tempests to be a bit mad. If Sera is anything to go by, I must agree.”

There was nothing friendly in his laugh, a crack of electricity, too cold to be alive. “What gave you the impression I’m not?”

Dorian was much much too impressionable. “Quite the question, Gemma.”

For the first time Dorian witnessed Trevelyan faltered. Well, not quite, but his hands paused a split second before resuming like they hadn’t.

Since Dorian never dug hole he wouldn’t dig deeper, he pretended not to notice and continued as if Trevelyan handed him the nickname etched in gold. “You see, Gemma, it would be easy to believe you’re mad considering the present danger you are choosing to ignore. Here we are, sitting with our hands under our arses while Alexius--”

“Tell me, Lord Pavius,” Trevelyan interrupted as if Dorian hadn’t been talking.

He spoke no lower or higher volume, voice amused and relaxed compared to the constant sense of anxiety that weighed on his posture. It was the unexpected discardment of his previously unflagging courtesy that stopped Dorian short.

“What is it you think Alexius is going to do?” He paused the briefest second as if giving a Dorian a chance to reply, but continued before Dorian could open his mouth, “do you think he would have extended an invitation to me unprepared? Do you think he would have anything more to do than what he has already done if he is truly waiting for my arrival?”

This time Dorian rushed to speak, ready to wring the empty pause post-rhetorical question for all it was worth. “I think giving someone with malicious intent more time than necessary is irresponsible. I think you are not recognizing or you are ignoring the gravity of the situation. I think perhaps of all the things you are avoiding, this should be the one you face.”

When Dorian sought him out he had no intention of calling him out on his passive existence, lack of assertion as a person and figurehead, but Dorian did have a habit of saying things he had no intention of saying. Often times the things he said offended, often times Dorian meant them to be offensive. At this point, Dorian did not care. Dorian was just annoyed with the inaction when there was so much to be done.

“Don’t be naive. ”

“Excuse me,” Dorian tone sharp, not asking for pardon by any perspective. “I am quite aware of the circumstances in which we find ourselves in. I, of all people, know what he is capable of. I don’t think you are showing due respect.”

“You’re too rash, in a hurry.”

“Don’t lecture me,” Dorian snapped. “Do you think this is a game? That is what you’re familiar with, isn’t it? A game.”

Trevelyan looked away. Turly, truly, it was a smile. Dorian’s stomach clenched. Why was he smiling? Why was a man who lived everyday wearing the expression of someone at funeral wearing a smile now? When he looked back to Dorian, the faint tinge of red in his eyes looked so much darker in the lamplight.

“Your ruling class are cunts the same as Orlesian nobles, but you’d be no better than fumbling child in the Grand Game. No finesse. Lash out with your magic, bully and bribe, you will never understand a brand on the mind does much more damage than one on the skin.”

Dorian refused to waste time feeding Trevelyan’s melodrama. Maybe a bit bitterly, Dorian retorted, each word drenched in sarcasm. “Oh yes, a stray word is so much more hurtful than the blood being rend in your veins.” 

He shouldn’t have said it, not because it meant anything to Trevelyan, but because how much Dorian showed of himself. Such a tiny thing, but if he once played his ridiculous game Orlais was so proud of, he would see it. 

“Like ‘this’?” Trevelyan asked, moving his hand in a lazy gesture that could have been nothing as easily as it could have been the motion of a spellcaster.

Dorian knew he wasn’t a mage, he knew Trevelyan wasn’t, but he felt his blood turn to ice. Dorian knew Trevelyan wasn’t a mage and that cold fear was all his doing. No, Dorian did not flinch, did not even tense, still met Trevelyan’s eyes, but that tiny little vulnerability, that niggling little issue never to be resolved cut through him.

“‘This’ might be a simple word, meaningless to you,” Trevelyan continued, as if oblivious to the internal distress that simple word surely did cause, as if disturbing Dorian hadn’t been intention at all.

He feigned ignorance so flawlessly Dorian would have been convinced if he gave Trevelyan any less credit. “Words alone are not dangerous, no. It’s what was done to the person who hears them and how they will react. Cut a man’s throat, but heal his flesh, he still will not be the same.”

After the crash of cold Dorian felt hot with a spike of anger and simmering disappointment in himself at how easily he fell for Trevelyan’s little trick. Maker, Dorian might hate him if Trevelyan gave even a hint of enjoyment. Then Dorian hated him because he didn’t show malice, but too much sympathy.

“Words are comparable to slit throats now?” Dorian forced a tone of faint amusement, kept himself as casual as he had been when he walked in the room.

As if he pitied him, Trevelyan’s eyes softened. “Dorian, did you think I was speaking metaphors? Do you know what that man did after I branded him? He washed off the scent of burnt flesh, put on his duvet, straightened his mask, and danced the next waltz. Do you think he ever waltzed again without thinking of that crest burned into his chest?”

Dorian scoffed. “Are you attempting to intimidate me?”

What other reason would Trevelyan tell such as story? Why else would he share an anecdote about the Herald of Andraste torturing a man? 

“No, Dorian,” Trevelyan used his name again, said it so warmly, so familiar it felt only right he called Dorian by his first time, “I am chiding you. You think you know the nature of people because you have experienced cruelty at the hands of people. Cynicism blinds a man who is not a cynic. Do not be childish.”

“What do you know about my experiences?” Dorian retorted, tenuous composure slipping, Insulted and almost incredulous, Dorian said, “‘ _childish_.’”

“Immature,” Trevelyan offered, not consoling at all, “but you are young. You can still learn.”

“How old do you think I am?”

“You are young otherwise you would not ask me that,” Trevelyan laughed goodnaturedly. “Trust me or not, you are here because you wish to be. You are here because you had a question. My answer is we go when Alexius has waited long enough and no sooner.”

“As you say, _Herald_ ,” Dorian spat more resentful than he should have been.

Trevelyan slight expression of amusement waned to the solemn one Dorian knew. “My friends call me ‘Gemma.’ Can I count you among them?”

Before this little conversation, Dorian could have easily said no, not yet, maybe never. Acquaintances was fine. Then this strange intensity came over them, the back and forth or rather blow after blow from Trevelyan was too intimate for nothing to have changed. Yet there had been no threat. Trevelyan hadn’t postured or angered. 

Honestly, surprising even to himself, Dorian said, “I don’t know.”

Trevelyan nodded, face sympathetic, too understanding. “If it makes no difference to you, I would still ask you call me ‘Gemma.”

Dorian found himself searching for the appropriate reply, as if there was a correct answer. He didn’t understand the intent behind Trevelyan offering the nickname Dorian tried to utilized against him. Dorian scrutinized him for a tell, but the scarred face showed nothing but earnesty.

After waiting much too long, Dorian said, “it makes no difference to me, Gemma.”

“Thank you, Lord Pavus.”

Lord Pavus Gemma said.

 _Gemma_.

-

“I always had faith in you, Gemma,” Leliana told him. She took up her bow and died for them. 

Gemma did not look away.

Dorian later wondered if Gemma loved her.

#

Dorian Pavus.

As with his other comrades, Gemma gauged the Tevene mage with unengaged observation, gentle probes, and then in the face of danger. Dorian was someone Gemma could have admired had he not been himself. Gemma did not admire people. There was nothing commendable in wanting things. Like so many people, Dorian wanted things.

Dorian wanted better. He wanted impossible things. He wanted change. Gemma had no doubt when Dorian put his mind he would bring about the reform he wished to see. Gemma had no doubt Dorian eventually would. Idealistic, talented, with enough hardship to ground him, but not break him, Dorian was naive enough to try and strong enough to succeed.

During their conversation in the cellar of Haven’s Chantry Gemma recognized he pushed at Dorian more than was necessary. It was a dull awareness that Gemma internally acknowledged and chose to continue with anyway. For a brief second as he watched Dorian go, Gemma wondered why he had. He wondered what the point had been.

It cost nothing for Gemma to assist with his development. Gemma wouldn’t. He wanted nothing to do with Dorian. He wanted nothing to do with the Inquisition or the world, but he had no choice. Dorian was a choice, one Gemma would not take.

But he would have been so easy to choose.

Gemma did choose the mages. Gemma understood mages in a dark intimate way he would never trust Templars. Magic was not a choice. Templars became Templars for a variety of reasons. Magic was always. The power of the Templars was conditional.

Dorian joined them on a permanent basis after Gemma allied the Inquisition with the mages. Cullen said Gemma had no right to make that choice. Cassandra defended him. Forced to make decisive history changing calls, she understood. Gemma presented it as such, but it had always been his intention. 

Leliana smiled. 

Dorian joined the Inquisition.

Haven was destroyed. 

Gemma could have slept forever.


	2. Chapter 2

Out of every member of the Inquisition, the destruction of Haven affected Gemma least. 

Dorian supposed that statement wasn’t fair, likely inaccurate, but as far as perception went the man’s behavior did not vary. He remained stable and steady, a quiet if not intense pillar of strength for the Inquisition. He appeared no more weary and spoke no less pleasantly despite the heavy new title.

Even after the physical trauma he suffered, he faked his stiff old man walk with the same practiced ease. He still associated with the same people for the same amounts of time. He spoke with Commander Rutherford as they observed the training of troops. Cullen focused unerringly on his soldiers. Gemma’s eyes scanned the yard.

He met Dorian’s.

Dorian plastered on a smirk and gave a half salute as he walked past. If only because he was certain Gemma would have taken his attention elsewhere, Dorian risked a glance back. Like they never left, Gemma’s eyes still watched him, pale irises eerily bright in the overcast day.

Dorian frowned and walked away.

He nearly smacked into Sera. The little imp bore her teeth in either a smile or a threat.

“Oy, Dorian. Guess what.”

“I would rather not.”

“Don’t matter. Come on.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“Stuff it. Let’s go.”

-

“Dare I ask?”

“Guess who dun it.”

Sera stood, stance wide and arms crossed over her chest as if the laboratory before them was her work and something to be proud of. Or she was just proud of how quickly she picked all three locks.

Counters lined two of the four walls, most set up neatly with clean chemistry and alchemic tools. The eastern wall, however, was filled with shelf after shelf of neatly organized vials, wax sealed and labeled with unfamiliar symbols. A copper tub, a vat really, simmered on low heat, piping leading to another, lid firmly latched. Along the last wall grew strange plants, some vines, some not green at all, some bearing bright berries and rather nasty looking thorns.

Dorian assumed Sera referred to the cracked athanor surrounded by scorch marks and a strange metallic liquid leaking from it only to evaporate upon hitting stone.

Noticing how long he spent silently taking in Gemma’s private laboratory, Dorian groped around for something to say. “You mean you didn’t?”

“‘Course not. Why would I do that?” She waved her hand about for emphasis.

“Sera, I have no idea why you do half the things you do.”

“Not clever, are you?”

When Sera led him through halls yet to be tidied in the seemingly endless fortress of Skyhold, Dorian might have felt the least bit apprehensive. However he found himself as excited as her for different reasons, although he did his best to hide it from her. It would do no one good to have Sera buzzing about in his business. Not that he had any particular business with any particular person.

Ahem.

“If not you, the Inquisitor presumably. He’s the only other one here mad enough to be bandying about unstable chemical compounds.”

Sera let out a snort. “You having me on? I wouldn’t risk the shet he does. The Inquisitor got balls, I’ll give him that. Needs to quit making nasty stuff. That’s how you burn out your insides. Or up. Dunno. Whatever. You get it.”

“So why did you bring me here?”

Sera stared at him as if he was stupid. Dorian arched an eyebrow resulting in her scowl.

“So he don’t kill himself doing--” She waved her hand about again. “--this.”

“Forgive me for my lack of insight, but exactly how is this relevant?”

Sera rolled her eyes. “Well now you know. So you tell him you know and then he knows you know and if you know then he won’t because you saying about you knowing means you care enough to say something which means he got something to care about. You know?”

“No.”

“For someone who blew his friggin’ head up so big you’re friggin’ daft.”

“I must be. Why does he need all of this?”

“Fuck if I know. Most of us find something that works, muck around a bit every now and then, but the Inquisitor brews shet you might catch fire looking at. You think he’s quicker than me because he’s quicker than me?”

“That was my assumption, yes.”

Sera made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “Yeah, friggin right.”

“Sera--”

“I'm not doing it again,” she interrupted, done with Dorian’s reluctance. Her voice trembled. “I'm not jamming another needle in his chest when he electrocutes him.”

“Excuse me, but you what?”

“I might not be the same kind of right as you people, and neither’s he, but I know he’s not my kind of right either. He doesn't listen to anyone but Leliana, and she's not going to say anything so that leaves you.”

“What? Why would he listen to me?”

“He likes you, you idiot.”

“As far as I can tell he likes everyone, or rather he has no feelings strong enough to be considered dislike.”

Dead silence followed. Dorian glanced to Sera only to find her staring at him like he was something gross. Overdramatic.

“Okay, you have to be friggin moron to miss it.” Before Dorian could defend his very true statement, Sera barrelled on. “None of us even knew he could smile until you rolled up.”

Dorian only just caught himself from arguing Gemma smiled all the time before realizing it might prove her point.

“He might not make good cookies but he tried and if he dies it'd friggin suck.

“Because then we’d have no means of closing rifts?”

“That too.”

=

“Do the dead bother you so much, necromancer?” Gemma asked.

Dorian glanced up from wringing half the mire from his robes to find Gemma avoiding his eyes. A ghost of a smile teased his lips and really it was the most awful tell Dorian had ever seen. Honestly, it was a wonder how he fooled the entire Inquisition into thinking him stoic.

Already irritated with the circumstances he found himself in, Dorian answered a bit more sharply than needed. “Following you has me tripping over the trail of bodies in your wake. If the dead ever bothered me I should think I’d be over it by now.”

What might have been a smile gone, Gemma closed his eyes and leaned his head against the tent pole. Despite mucking about the Fallow Mire for the better part of the day, Gemma could have been shining with cleanliness compared to literally every other being in the wretched place. A single Flask of Fire scorched off the worst of the rot leaving only a dry crust of mud to brush off.

Returning his attention to his predicament, Dorian unbuckled his caplet and tossed it to the ground. Not like it could get any fithier. “Yes, please, make yourself comfortable while scour myself clean of diseased flesh and swamp water. Druffalo have shit cleaner than this.”

“Would you rather I help you undress?”

Dorian jerked his head up to stare at Gemma. Perfectly impassive, he remained as relaxed as before, eyes still closed. Thunder crashed. Gemma did not flinch. 

“Gracious offer, Inquisitor, but I’d hate for one so holy to dirty his hands.”

“Low blow, Dorian,” Gemma laughed. “I expect better from you.”

“Oh, so you’re calling me Dorian now?”

At that, Gemma peeked his eye open. Yes, this time he smiled. “I forgot I wasn’t.”

Dorian smiled too, his agitation lessening with Gemma’s easy company. He peeled off the second layer of outerwear and threw it in the same pile. It landed with a splat.

“I think I’ll miss ‘Lord Pavus.’ It made me sound respectable.”

“We can’t have that.”

“Are you saying I’m not?” Dorian feigned offense.

“I’m at least hoping you’re not.”

“Suddenly I find myself hoping you’re not holy at all.”

Gemma laughed. “You’re in luck.”

=

Curiosity was a dangerous thing. In the hands of an idiot, curiosity was mostly a danger to them. In the hands of an idiot with power, it was a danger to many. In the hands of an intelligent person with power--well, apparently that’s half the reason the Blight came to be.

Fortunately for the world, Dorian’s curiosity at the moment was very finely focused and not likely to do any harm to anyone that he could foresee. At least not real harm. At least not crippling harm. Probably. Most likely. Dorian was willing to take that risk.

Besides, the Inquisitor had shown himself to be especially durable and he was the only other involved party. Perhaps involved was as somewhat misleading word. It was more the Inquisitor was the subject of Dorian’s curiosity.

At some point, and he was not claiming it to be a good thing, Dorian became quite to intensely curious about Gemma. Even disregarding the glam and luster of falling out of the Fade and then being taken prisoner, first physically and then obligatorily, by the Inquisition, Gemma was an intriguing individual. 

Each time Dorian interacted with him a new question was raised. At first Dorian implied he wanted the answer in the delightfully beguiling way he did. Gemma handled these indirect inquiries with an oblivious smile and walking away. Next, Dorian blatantly asked questions. Gemma’s response remained the same. Shockingly effective.

At Haven Dorian had no choice but to accept his questions would go unanswered, at least for the time. Now at Skyhold, with much more time, resources, and interaction with Gemma, the curiosity Dorian long suppressed demanded to be sated. Dorian always did have trouble resisting what he couldn’t have.

It started innocently enough. It always did.

Since arriving in the south Dorian had been cold. It was a fact of life that haunted him in both his waking and sleeping hours. When very young he experienced the unfortunate novelty of winter while travelling with his father. Despite his dismay at the offense of cold weather, he found himself back in it. Tragic, really.

Outside the tower winter winds howled, rattling the window of his alcove. Frost coated the glass, making it nearly impossible to see. Most people had the good sense to turn in early to the warmth of their beds. Dorian had sense, just not always particularly good sense. He remained in the library.

Disgusted with the uselessness of his book, Dorian made an appropriate noise to express said disgust before tossing it aside. Shoving himself up, he went in search of a more helpful book, silently lamenting the very sad selection offered to him regarding runic symbols in subcultures of old god cults.

If only because of the absence of people did Dorian even notice Gemma in the vicinity. He stood with Helisma, both speaking quietly. Then again, Dorian had never heard either of them speak loudly. Helisma at least had the excuse of lacking emotions.

As if he sensed it, barely a second of Dorian openly observing passed before Gemma glanced his way. Their eyes held. A half smile.

Awful.

Gemma continued his conversation with Helisma. Dorian returned to his no doubt futile search. Although he had no real reason to think so, Dorian fully expected Gemma to speak to him before leaving the library. The thought gave him pause. Was it expectation? A desire? Would he be offended if Gemma didn’t or just disappointed?

Luckily, Gemma saved Dorian from introspection and facing possibly troubling truths by behaving as he ought to. Noticing his approach, Dorian turned to greet him. Gemma handed him the book he threw two minutes earlier. Oh, no. It was the one before that. 

“I threw that because I did not want it,” Dorian said as he accepted the book anyway.

“You picked it up because you did. Are you punishing it because you didn’t like what you read or because you didn’t want what you were reading?” 

The way he ducked his head, the curve of his lips, not quite meeting Dorian’s eyes, but still watching him, Gemma teased as if he thought himself sly, but too shy to admit it. Dorian once wondered how much of it was an act, no one so easily read could have been a bard. After some thought he supposed it didn’t matter. When it came down to it, Gemma would only show what he wanted to. What else could Dorian expect?

“Are you saying I punished an inanimate object?” 

Then again, no one was honest. Dorian supposed if anyone could be taken at face value it would be a person who knew what face to show.

“Do you like the word ‘disrespect’ better?” Gemma offered, as if trying to appease him rather than tease him.

Dorian was ninety percent sure this was flirting. “It should be disrespected. Or at least the author. Seeing how the author has been dead for approximately a hundred years I have no other choice but to abuse his work in protest of its contents.”

“It's not that bad, Dorian.” He responded in a sweeter voice, like he truly meant to persuade him.

“Oh, I suppose you have read it.” Dorian waved the book in dismissal before looking about for another place to throw it.

Gemma snatched it from his hand. “You didn’t appreciate Brother Florian’s commentary on your Magisterium?”

“And you’ve read it.” Of course he had.

Gemma laughed. “Just enough to pretend I had. I have no idea what the rest of it says.” 

Book between them, Gemma stepped closer. For a tiny moment, before reality could catch up with his imagination, Dorian thought of a thousand reasons Gemma might step close. Instead, Gemma nudged him out of the way to slide the book back in place. Dorian hadn’t even realized they stood at the shelf he pulled it from. He made sure to keep the irrational disappointment from his face.

“But why?”

Gemma didn’t step back once done. He spoke more quietly, but Dorian heard just as well for how close he was. “Because I didn't read it.”

Dorian gave him a dirty look. 

Withdrawing from Dorian’s space, Gemma laughed again before answering. “To impress a woman.”

Ah. Perhaps not flirting. Sighing in exaggerated exasperation, Dorian resumed his search of the shelves. “Why else would a man force himself through such garbage, but for a woman?”

“I suppose I’ll have to find a more respectable book to read if I wish to impress you.”

Halfway through tugging a book free Dorian paused. He glanced at Gemma who met his eyes dead on, playful half smile still on his face.

“Inquisitor, I believe I might have misread you once again,” Dorian murmured.

“No one expects you to be an expert on the subject.”

“How could I be? It would require context I sorely lack.”

Gemma’s eyes narrowed and his smile shrunk the slightest bit. He studied Dorian silently, before nodding in concession. “Fair enough, Dorian.”

While not quite sure exactly what the response entailed, Dorian let it go. Patience, he reminded himself. The long game was better than losing the game. After a moment of only the wind knocking the windowpanes and Dorian’s fingers skittering over book spines, Gemma spoke.

“The first time I saw snow I thought the world was ending.”

Dorian looked back to Gemma, but the Inquisitor now stared at the floor, brow furrowed. It took a mountoumous amount of effort for Dorian to keep his mouth clamped shut and questions on hold. 

“I went to sleep and when I woke up everything was covered in white.” Somewhere along the way the humor left his voice. “I must have been seven. That was my first winter in the Free Marches.”

Figuring the word enough for Gemma to understand what he asked, Dorian said, “Rivain?”

Unexpectedly, Gemma smiled. No. He smirked.

“Bull owes me a sovereign. He didn’t think you’d pick up on it.”

“Your accent?” It occured to Dorian to be insulted.

“He thought you’d be too self-absorbed to notice.”

Dorian almost argued, but really, it was a fair assessment.

#

“So,” the Iron Bull began, “Boss.”

Gemma sighed, but didn’t answer. Bull would get to his point. He felt no need to encourage the conversation especially considering he didn’t want to have it. No, he couldn’t be quite certain expectly what Bull wished to speak about, but as a general rule, Gemma didn’t want to have conversations that started with “so, boss.”

Instead of acknowledging him or even sparing a glance his way, Gemma walked by to the two freshly smashed corpses. As inevitable as it was he would have to deal with whatever Bull wanted to say, because if Bull wanted to say something he would, Gemma wouldn’t be accommodating about it.

“You don’t need to check my work. I’m pretty sure they’re dead.”

Despite himself, Gemma managed to smile. “I’m only taking a moment to appreciate how dead they are.”

Kneeling down, he began systematically going through the first’s pockets. Behind him he heard lumbering, Bull on his way over.

“So.”

“Get to the point, Bull,” Gemma gave in. He held up jewel encrusted bracelet to the flickering torchlight. He tossed it aside.

Cole caught it. He held it tight, running his thumbs over the etching. “Steal them from their wrists. Unlatch her necklace when you kiss her. Earrings gone, string of pearls, string of rings tied with a pocket watch chain. Stolen gold for stolen gaatlok.”

Gemma rolled the body over to search through the side satchel.

“Stolen gaatlok.”

“Unless the Qunari sold it to Carta smugglers, but somehow I doubt it.”

“What did you say you did before this?”

Gemma shot him a smirk before collecting the prayer book and straightening up. It was a simple thing, but well made and new. He tossed it underhand to Cole.

“Cassandra will like this,” Cole said.

“Probably shouldn’t tell her where we got it,” Bull advised.

“She will know, but she won’t mind. Gemma thought of her.”

“Real charmer, Boss.”

“You owe me a sovereign.”

“I owe you two.”

Gemma smiled the slightest bit more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading. it'll get better soon


	3. Chapter 3

_He made a mistake. He made two mistakes._

_The first mistake was he had not assumed his adversary to be wholly evil. The second mistake was he did not act wholly evil himself._

_And now he paid for his mistakes in the blood of innocents._

_The acidic scent of lyrium churled so thick the air shimmered. A series of explosions rocked the earth, orange flaring through black smoke. Explosions he hadn’t caused. The Templars sealed the Circle Tower and now they would bring it down on the mages. A mage ran free. A child. The Templar Knight Captain ran her through. Gemma killed him two heartbeats too late._

_Templar Knights descended on him like carp on bones. Too many. He shoved the thought away. The truth. The knowledge did not help. There were always too many. Always too many for him to kill. Roaches in their shells. This time there were too many for him to come out alive._

_This time he would die._

_For this, he deserved to._

_Another explosion and green light poured from the sky. Demons fell like comets. They crawled over the earth and joined the Templars._

_No. No that wasn’t right. There were no demons in the Circle of Dairsmuid. There was no green light. There had only been metal, blood, and screams._

_This wasn’t right._

_The green light swallowed the world._

-

Gemma jerked awake with a jagged gasp. It cleaved him like a hatchet slammed into his chest. He choked on the pain, entire body seizing up and shaking. He couldn’t breathe. There was no air, darkness pressing in on him, smothering. He thought he would die.

All Gemma could think was finally.

A sound wormed through his panic. The quiet noise made him realize there was no more screaming, that the world wasn’t crashing. It was a soft noise, one of sleep, from a person at rest, someone who didn’t dream about the blood of hundreds on their hands.

He trembled, hand clutched over his chest where he expected a gaping hole, but he found himself dragging in shaky breaths. Small and pained, but Gemma breathed. He peered through the dark to across the tent where Dorian slept. 

Even in the wilds of Thedas Dorian slept as though in luxury, body draped languidly over the the pillows Gemma let him steal. Truthfully, Gemma stole Blackwall’s and let Dorian steal both thinking they were Gemma’s. Truthfully, Gemma liked that Dorian stole his pillows.

It was a fucking problem. Dorian was a fucking problem.

No, that was unfair. Gemma was the problem. Gemma was a weak willed piece of shit who was fucking terrified of what happened to mages who weren’t scared enough of the Chantry. Gemma was terrified of what happened to mages when the Chantry wanted to retaliate against him. 

Rationally, Gemma knew what happened in Dairsmuid and the fucking hole in the sky to be two entirely different things, but it didn’t stop the fear. It didn’t stop the nightmares that came back the moment Gemma started getting too attached to Dorian.

Gemma knew better.

He always knew better.

He just always failed to do better.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breath enough to speak aloud. Fuck.

Still trembling, Gemma rolled over and up, onto his feet. Silent, he found his boots, managed them on, and then padded over to the tent flap. He slipped out into the night. For as warm as the Western Approach was, Gemma shivered when wind passed over the dunes, cold sweat leaving his skin chilled. He hunched his shoulders and tucked his hands under his arms.

At his approach, Cassandra looked up from oiling the leather straps of her shield.

“Inquisitor,” she acknowledged him.

“Seeker,” he greeted in return, continuing his trek out of camp.

Before he pass her, she nodded to the seat on the bench next to her. “Come, sit. I wish to speak with you.”

Fuck.

He forced one of his most genial apologetic smiles. “As much as I’d like to accept--”

“Are you a liar, Gemariah?”

“Yes,” Gemma answered instantly. If she was asking she already knew, as the redundant as the question might be. No one earnestly asked a person they believed honest if they were a liar. 

Cassandra studied him through narrowed eyes. “Leliana said as much.”

Good girl, that Leliana. This time Gemma smiled genuinely. “You’re wise to trust her.”

“She said I would be wise to trust you, a liar.”

Fucking Leliana.

Oblivious to Gemma’s intense emotional swings between love and regret towards Leliana, Cassandra continued, “I must admit, I had not taken you for a liar.” Cassandra looked away from him back to her task before speaking again, less harshly, “but I have been mistaken about you since the beginning, haven’t I?”

Putting it lightly. Gemma looked around for an out, but the sand went on unobstructed for yards and yards. He wondered if Cassandra was faster than him in a dead sprint. Did Seekers train in sand?

“She says you are a good man.”

Still looking to the distance, Gemma corrected her, tone flat. “She’s wrong.”

“Did you not say she was wise?”

No longer smiling, Gemma glanced back to her. “No one is infallible.”

“True, otherwise we would not be in circumstances we find ourselves.” 

She nodded at his response as if it had been a test he passed. Maybe it had been. Gemma was too tired to dance with Cassandra. No test she had mattered to him.

Inquisition scouts conversed in low voices across camp, and the fire crackled. For a long moment they simply watched each other.

“Do you believe in the Maker, Gemariah?” Cassandra asked, voice more curious than demanding.

The change threw him off. The question threw him off. Gemma furrowed his brow. “You asked me this before.”

“I did.”

“Do you think my answer as changed?”

“I wonder if the truth has.”

Gemma laughed. It was genuinely funny. At this exact point, Gemma realized Cassandra wasn’t a person he would be able to keep at arm’s length, not anymore. For the good of the world it was better she not know him, but for the good of the world, it would be better he trust her.

“That’s the thing about truth, Seeker. It never changes.”

“Why do you hate the Chantry?”

“Leliana tell you that too?”

“I do not need Leliana to tell me something so obvious. I was with you in Val Royeaux.”

Internally, Gemma winced. Solas had been visibly more unsettled than him by the Templars’ betrayal and the violence upon Revered Mother Hevara. The most difficult part of the day had been allowing Lord Seeker Lucius to walk out of Val Royeaux alive. Even now he thought about if he should have killed him, about how he might have justified it.

Cassandra sighed when he did not respond. 

“As you said, no one is infallible. The Chantry, though divinely inspired, is made up of fallible people. In recent times,” she paused, considering her words. When she started again, it was slower, with more care. “In recent times, the Chantry has failed her people and therefore the Maker.”

Standing there was like torture. There were burning buildings Gemma was less eager to leave than this conversation. For a surreal moment, Gemma wanted to tell her it all. Tell her exactly where he came from and who he was. He wanted to tell her what he had been doing after he left Orlais while Leliana ran around with the Hero of Ferelden and who he killed while she served the Divine. He wanted to tell Cassandra exactly what he had been doing at the Conclave.

“A couple of my cousins, my half sister, they are mages.”

“Yes, but--”

“‘Were’,” Gemma cut in, correcting the deliberate mistake in tense. “Were mages. My mother was Rivaini. I was born in Dairsmuid.” He knew he was saying too much again. He knew it. He had grown so tired and weary in recent years. So weak. These people were getting to him.

It wasn’t as if he had anything left he needed to be strong for.

“Your Chantry didn’t fail her people. She actively sought to kill them.”

Cassandra looked so genuinely sad, so pitying, Gemma had to laugh again.

“My niece was ten. Fuck your Chantry, Seeker.”

=

No, eavesdropping was not polite. Rather rude. Below him. But it hadn’t been deliberate. What was he supposed to do, not listen?

_My niece was ten. Fuck your Chantry, Seeker._

Well.

While Dorian didn’t have the full details of what occured in the Rivaini Circle, he knew enough. He knew many people, mages, died because of religious zealotry. 

No, it had not been sanctioned by the Divine herself, but neither had it been condemned as far as Dorian knew. Cassandra would know. Leliana would know.

Gemma would know.

Not to say Dorian didn’t expect Gemma to have a tragic history, with his sad eyes and sad smile and sad everything, but the irony was traumatically immense. It would be poetic if not so painfully real. What a cruel twist in fate Gemma now served as the highest authority for a god he didn’t believe in for an organization founded by the head of the Chantry that killed his family. 

_Gemma laughed. “If there’s a Maker, he’s taking a piss on me.”_

At the time, Dorian took Gemma’s words to be the joke he presented it, nothing extreme, a little jaded, a little blasphemous. Now, in context, Dorian agreed.

He wasn’t sure where Gemma went after the conversation ended. When he realized Gemma would not be returning soon, Dorian left their tent to investigate. Cassandra sat by the fire, presumably where Gemma left her.

She did not look up when Dorian arrived, eyes angry and focused on polishing her sword with unnecessary amounts of enthusiasm. Dorian scanned the area, like Gemma might pop up and tell him not to worry, but no Gemma. He at least spotted a lovely little bottle that might as well have had his name on it. Snatching it up, he approached the Seeker. As if invited, he seated himself beside her.

“What lovely weather we’re having,” Dorian commented as he uncapped the bottle. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, but proceeded to drink it anyway.

“Dorian,” Cassandra said, but the word lacked heat.

Suddenly, Dorian realized she wasn’t about to threaten him. In fact, it sounded as if she might ask him something. Would the wonders ever cease?

“You know the Inquisitor well.”

If only not to be hit, Dorian resisted snorting. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“But he trusts you.”

“I really wouldn’t say that. He doesn’t even trust me to stir tea let alone cast a spell in his lab without a ten minute presentation including diagrams.” Frowning Dorian took an unnecessarily large swig. He nearly choked.

Cassandra waited patiently for him to finished hacking before speaking again. “Yes, but he likes you. He does not like me.”

“Cassandra, dear, I guarantee whatever it is you want to ask me you are better off asking Leliana. I’m fairly certain he would murder us all in our beds if she asked him to.”

If possible, Cassandra glowered more. “She said it would be better I ask him myself.”

“If the little I overheard is anything to go by I am guessing it did not go well.” He tipped the bottle towards her in offering.

Surprisingly, she accepted it. “You stay because you believe it is the right thing to do.”

It was not a question, but a fact Gemma very adamantly and very publically established. Dorian should probably thank him for that. It would only be extremely awkward.

She drank deep and handed the bottle back to him. “Is that the reason he stays?”

“Does it matter?”

Quietly, she said, “I suppose not.”

“As long as he seals the rifts he could be Avvar and I don’t think anyone would care too much. Besides, what are his options? Let the world burn? He is one of us idiots who live here.” Dorian did not say he knew Gemma just enough to suspect the Inquisitor might have considered letting the world burn out of pure spite.

Maybe he would have if not for Leliana. Dorian took another swig, wincing before it even went down.

“Dorian.”

Dorian cleared his throat delicately. “Yes?”

“If you were possessed by a demon, do you think he would kill you?”

“Maker, how long have you been holding on to that one?” 

Cassandra scoffed. “I meant no offense.”

“Assuming you weren’t there to?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” Dorian muttered. Although barely half done with the bottle, Dorian looked around the area for another. He sighed. “Yes, if I was possessed by a demon, I do not think he would hesitate to kill me.”

“The Rivaini allow demons to possess them.”

“The Rivaini seers allow spirits to possess them.”

“You sound like Solas.”

“Wise man, that Solas.”

-

The second time Dorian awoke, it was to gray morning light and a headache. If Gemma returned he left again, his cot empty. Reluctant, but accepting of the inevitable, Dorian forced himself out of bed, searched out the water sack in hopes to ease the slight hangover, and then readied himself. Apparently Gemma had plans.

When Dorian ducked out of the tent he found Gemma and Blackwall already up and prepared, the two men speaking in low tones across camp. Unexpectedly, Blackwall let out a loud laugh, maybe a little mad. A smile ghosted over Gemma’s face.

Dorian frowned. A moment later, Cassandra appeared too.

As if the mild drama of the previous night hadn’t occurred, Gemma nodded in Cassandra in his usual affable manner and smiled a small smile in the general vicinity of Dorian. While hesitant at first, Cassandra accepted their return to polite, but functioning distance. Afterall, alienating each other in the middle of dangerous territory fraught with Darkspawn and Venatori wouldn’t be the best of ideas.

Once all prepared, Gemma gestured for them to gather. “The last marker for the Chantry Trail is east of camp.”

“How do you know this?” Blackwall asked a very reasonable question.

“I scouted last night,” Gemma gave a very reasonable answer.

Blackwall frowned and then asked another reasonable question, “by yourself?” 

“Yes.”

Cassandra pursed her lips in a tight line. No doubt she already berated herself for letting him go off by himself, but likely, same as Dorian, she doubted Gemma would have taken well to either of them joining him. Although still appearing apprehensive, Blackwall nodded.

Moving on from the line of question which showed concern completely lost of him, Gemma said, “it the mouth of a cave. Signs of Templars can be found, but it appears to have been abandoned years ago.”

This… This did not sit well with Dorian. He wasn’t sure if Gemma was deliberately instigating or not, but no matter his intention, Cassandra stood stiff, fist clenched tight at her side.

“There’s a forcefield blocking the entrance that will require your talents,” Gemma nodded to Dorian. “While I can’t be certain as to what’s inside, I at least expect spiders.”

Dorian sighed. “And I expect they won’t be normal sized.”

Blackwall chuckled. “I don’t think you realize, Dorian, but here giant spiders are normal.”

“The South is just so charming.”

=

Gemma could feel Dorian’s stare boring into the back of his head as they walked down the tunnel.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

When it came to Gemma, Dorian was like a dog with a bone and he would not let it go. While Cassandra had the subtlety of a brick going through glass, Gemma trusted she wouldn’t have revealed the entirety of their conversation, if any of it, to a Tevinter mage she still watched with suspicion.

Despite his regular commentary about the barbarism of “the South,” Dorian apparently found no problem in eavesdropping. Previously, Gemma found Dorian’s absolute inability to control his curiosity funny. Of course previously Dorian hadn’t overheard any conversations Gemma would have minded him hearing.

Frankly, Gemma was mildly surprised Dorian managed to keep his questions to himself for so long. By now he had to be close to bursting. Maybe if they were by themselves he wouldn’t have minded Dorian asking. Gemma wouldn’t have answered, no, but he wouldn’t have minded Dorian asking. Another example of exactly how deep in he was, Gemma wouldn’t have minded Dorian asking because he liked Dorian’s attention more than Dorian leaving him alone.

Cassandra carried a similar silence to Dorian, holding in things she wanted to say, having sense enough to know not to say it. Gemma had no doubt Cassandra at least had more self control. 

As they arrived at the end of the tunnel, lit by magically fueled torches, Gemma almost groaned. The texts on the stone implied a holy spot. Gemma, being a fucking idiot, didn’t think about the context. He expected an altar, not a fucking dungeon. 

Cassandra drew a sharp breath, quiet, but not quiet enough to go unheard. Gemma looked to her, but her eyes were on the blood splattered platform. By then the tension had heightened enough even Blackwall began to feel it. He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced away when Gemma looked from Cassandra to him.

Dorian, well capable of reading the mood, but also with the shame of a idiot said, “well, isn’t this cosy.”

“Shut up, Dorian,” Cassandra snapped.

“Maker,” Blackwall muttered.

Ignoring them, Gemma proceeded to the north side of the cave, intending to sweep clockwise along the cave wall before inspecting the central area. Behind him, Gemma heard the clink of metal as Dorian poked around the worktables. 

“What do you think this was for?” Dorian asked.

No one answered. Cassandra, Blackwall, Gemma, all three of them were intimately aware of what tools like these were used for. Dorian was a smart lad. Likely he already knew too.

“I’m sensing some tension.”

“Dorain,” Cassandra said.

“Are you going to tell me to shut up again?”

“Shut up.”

Pulling out his lock picking kit, Gemma crouched down in front of a chest and set to work. Even old and grimy, the lock unlatched easy and the lid popped open. Gemma found himself smiling at the contents. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t happy about it. He wasn’t sure he was anything. He ran his hand over the symbol engraved into the he chest piece. 

“Here, Seeker,” he gestured for Cassandra to come over. “I found something for you.” Tugging it out carefully, Gemma straightened up and presented it to her.

Uncertainty obvious, maybe a little suspicious, she hesitated to taking it from him. In a way, Gemma pitied her.

“Take it, Cassandra. It’s better than the armor you have now.”

Her uncertainty became something closer to confusion at her given name instead of her title. In an effort to ease her, Gemma offered her a reassuring smile.

In an almost identical motion as him, Cassandra reached out and ran her fingers over the Templar emblem. 

“Once I would have been proud to wear that mark,” she murmured. Sighing, she accepted the armor from him. “The Templars are no longer an Order to honor, but you are right. It is practical to wear it at least until we return to Skyhold.”

“I’m nothing if not practical.”

Cassandra shot him a look, but she smiled too. It was small, but it was there. After a moment, she said, “thank you, Inquisitor.”

“My friends call me ‘Gemma.’”

Her grip on the armor tightened, but she met his eyes. “Are we friends?”

“If you would like us to be.”

As tentative as Gemma pretended to be, Cassandra said, “I would like that.” After a moment, she added, “Gemma.”


	4. Chapter 4

Too easy to choose.

Burned out, shaky and cold, Gemma stumbled towards the tavern. Someone named it after what they thought him. Years ago he might have played it up, even played into it, had some fun with the ruse. Now he felt disgust at the farce. From the moment it started, Gemma rejected the notion, repeatedly and without reserve.

Although he visited the place enough not to be noticed he hated it, that particular night Gemma knew it was the best place to be for his current condition. The collective body heat, energy, movement, and free flowing alcohol would counter the aftereffects of the first testing phase. 

The worst part of experimenting with new frost solutions was the fallout. The early versions had to be done purely as a control. Once refined he would develop a second element to regulate the freezing cold and prevent eating up his body heat too, but until then, he had to deal with each crest and come down.

He needed to keep warm. He needed to keep his mind engaged. The people would warm him, hypothermia could easily be mistaken for drunkenness, and worse comes to worst, at least one mage would be there to jumpstart his heart.

Gemma didn't remember opening the door to the Herald's Rest. He would remember the burst of noise and light. Later, he would remember Dorian. He would remember how their eyes met across the room and time seemed to freeze like some scene in one of Varric’s fucking books.

A cheer went through the crowd at Gemma’s arrival, one usually did, justifiable or not. It took hands clapping his shoulder and drinks shoved at him to shake him out of his trance. He managed to grab a hold of a drink and nod in thanks, return greetings, but by the time he turned his eyes back to Dorian, the mage’s attention had gone elsewhere.

Although he struggled to focus, thoughts hard to grasp, his strongest desire at the moment was to have Dorian’s attention again. A small thing, he mused, but it was something to focus on, to keep him oriented when the world wasn’t quite solid. Hard to go unnoticed, more than once patrons stopped him for either a word or congratulations for something Gemma didn’t find important enough to remember.

Almost to where he last caught sight of Dorian, Varric intercepted him.

“My esteemed Inquisitor.”

“Varric, any other day.” Gemma tried not to wince when he heard how rough his voice came out. Upon self assessment he realized he stood unevenly and hands shook. He focused on controlling the shivers

Levity gone, Varric eyed him. “Seems like you started your evening before you got here.”

“Any other day,” Gemma repeated, although a bit gentler, humor on the tail of it. Sometime in the past few months he started valuing friendship again. Dangerous. “It’s been a night.”

“Yeah, I can tell. Hold on, you need a better drink than that swill.” Without waiting for his reply, Varric took Gemma’s gifted drink from his hands and exchanged it for his own. Just like that.

Gemma didn’t necessarily trust Varric’s tastes, he had visited the Hanged Man in the past, the weight of the gesture meant enough.

Looking over his shoulder, Varric shouted,, “Sparkler!” Barely a second passed, but Varric shouted louder instead of waiting for a response. “Sparkler!”

As if magically summoned instead of called, Dorian materialized at Varric’s side with a heavy sigh. “If you insist on using that ridiculous nickname I ask you do so sparingly. I’d hate for it to catch on.”

With Dorian in view, Gemma no longer wasted his attention on Varric. Instead he raked his eyes over Dorian. Although he cultivated the same composed blase attitude as always, the flush of his cheeks was enough to indicate he passed his first drink some time ago. Still, he must have been sober enough to notice Gemma’s unrepentantly unsubtle stare.

“Catch like a housefire,” Varric replied.

Dorian frowned. “That’s not a phrase.”

“If I wrote it, it would be.”

“Your ego knows no bounds,” Dorian scoffed.

Varric snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

“I like it,” Gemma said honestly. He had yet to look away from Dorian, “Varric has good taste.” Maybe a lie.

“Never,” Dorian gasped. “‘Sparkler’ isn’t absolutely horrendous, but to claim Varric has good taste is just too far.”

Sighing in disappointment, Varric shook his head. “Disrespect me, here, in this house of love and community, now Sparkler, that’s bad taste.”

“The truth must be heard.”

“Preach, Sparkler, but I’m going to get myself a drink.”

+

Varric just _left them alone._

No, it didn’t sound very significant. Because it wasn’t. And no, they weren’t really alone in a tavern full of people, but they were together. Close. Too close or not close enough. Maker Dorian wasn’t sober enough for this.

As casual as it begun, part of Dorian knew the months of flirtation would culminate. Why shouldn’t a former bard with a religious movement around him and the disgrace of the Pavus House have a fling? The sky was torn open, darkspawn magisters touted godhood, demons ran rampant, and Dorian was enjoying himself in the south. Crazier things had happened. He just didn’t quite expect it to be right at that moment.

Really, he shouldn’t have. Really, why would he? As far as Dorian knew Gemma only drank enough for it to be noted he drank. If he came to the Herald’s Rest he usually left early, sometimes before Dorian even arrived. Yet there he was, speech slightly slurred and an unfamiliar warmth in his eyes. Instead of a creaky stiff hobble, Gemma moved like liquid, graceful and at ease.

Dorian didn’t know drunk could look so good on a person. Dorian didn’t know how good a person could look drinking. Dorian was paying too much attention to him. 

For as intensely as he watched Dorian before, once Varric left Gemma tore his eyes away. Dorian felt a little cold for it. Gemma accepted a drink and then another, exchanging words with the countless people. Still, he remained close to Dorian. Although he no longer kept his eyes on him, Gemma paid Dorian attention in other ways.

Gemma kept… _touching him._ Not inappropriately or even excessively so, just more than needed. More than strictly necessary. More like he meant something by it. The first time was easily dismissed. 

For whatever reason the Inquisitor spoke even less than usual, voice rough when he did as if his throat was raw. So when he touched Dorian’s elbow, asking wordlessly for Dorian to move and allow he pass, Dorian wrote it off. Yes, Dorian might have took a bit more note of it than justifiable, but he knew better than to search for meaning when it was not there.

Other people engaged him, a game of diamondback he seemed to be ahead in even drunk and speaking with Bull. Dorian folded a hand in, no chance at winning when he had the Inquisitor simultaneously paying him no mind and indiscriminately laying hands on him.

The touches became more and more intimate as the evening passed. From his bicep and shoulder to his his hip and then small of his back. Then he touched Dorian’s side, just below his ribs, and Dorian nearly confronted him. When he touched the back of his neck, hand so light, Dorian would have, but he didn’t remove his hand. Gemma let his hand rest there, a blatant display of familiarity, of something deeper.

It lit something in Dorian, heated him as sure as a hand between his legs. Drunk or not, people would notice. Word would spread. People would notice. Dorian looked to Gemma to tell him as much, make a joke of it, but the words died in his mouth.

For what felt like the first time in hours, Gemma was looking at him. He caught Dorian’s eyes and very deliberately swept his thumb down his throat.

“As irresistible as I know myself to be, don’t you have a reputation to mind?”

Absolutely shameless, he leaned closer, put his lips near Dorian’s ear to whisper. “Does it bother you I’m touching you or that people can see me doing it?”

What a terrible fucking question.

“Don’t tell me you gained some respectability when I wasn’t looking.”

No. No, Dorian had not.

=

Since Dorian had the self-control of… Dorian had no self-control. Lacking proper amounts of self-control and self-respect combined with too much curiosity and a considerable amount of narcissism, of course Dorian would search out Gemma. 

A private place with a perfect excuse, Dorian sauntered into Gemma’s laboratory ready to fulfill Sera’s request, and more importantly intending to discover how much of Gemma’s behavior the night before was due to alcohol.

Gemma didn’t look up when Dorian entered. However, that half smile curved his lips. He knew it was Dorian. Dorian tried not to get ahead of himself, but his ego was far ahead and a warm feeling filled his chest.

Since his last visit, the broken athanor had been removed although the scorch marks remained on the floor, leaving an outline. As annoying as he would have found it should their positions been reversed, Dorian tested his limits and ran his finger along a shelf as he passed. Like he knew Dorian’s intention, Gemma’s smile grew the slightest bit.

Once beside him, Dorian sighed as if bored despite just arriving. Gemma set aside a freshly sealed vial beside two others.

Dorian picked it up and held it up to the light to examine it. Casually, he commented, “Sera thinks you’re going to kill yourself.”

Gemma laughed softly. From the corner of his eye, Dorian watched as he added one milliliter and then another from the eyedropper into the heated crucible. He did not look to Dorian when he answered, instead of screwing the lid back on the bottle and watching the surface of his mixture as it swirled.

“I’ll last until after we defeat Corypheus at the very least,” he said as if explanation enough.

“So comforting to know.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Gemma said.

Dorian hated his heart skipped.

“I’ll need a mage shortly and Vivienne is less than pleased with me at the moment.”

It seemed every other day someone was less than pleased with him. The alternating other days someone was forgiving him.

“And Solas just won’t do? Or any of the other mages indebted to you?”

Gemma laughed again, this time looking up at Dorian. “Solas seems to be of the same opinion as Sera.” 

Setting the bottle safely out of range of the flame, Gemma pushed out his stool and stood up, immediately in Dorian’s space. Chest to chest, Dorian felt the heat emitting from him, and smelled the harsh chemicals with oh so pleasing undertones. 

This close Dorian could see the differences of scars, some neat and clean, shallow enough Dorian could believe his claim of an exploding alembic. This close Dorian knew he lied at least a little, the others, thick and with jagged edges.

“Besides,” he murmured, playful tone gone heavy with insinuation, “I’d rather watch you work.” 

He leaned in closer, only to brush by, hand just touching Dorian’s hip. The action answered Dorian’s question. The lightest, briefest touch, it was the same display of possession as the night before despite the empty room with no one watching. It shouldn’t have been so electric while sober.

“Charmer when you want someone to enable you.”

“Maybe you’re just easily charmed.”

“I think not.”

Again, Gemma smiled, small and to himself. Dorian was fast becoming addicted to that smile. Dangerously so. When else did he see it, but when they were alone? When else did they speak, but when they were?

“But you are charmed, right?” he asked, earnestly, as if he didn’t know. He already reached for his next tool, the ingredients around the mortar and pestle set out. He gestured Dorian over. “Will you work this magic for me, or should I try a little harder?”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to another series of observations about my dashing good looks or copious amount of talent.”

Returning the vial to its spot, Dorian then ambled the few feet over to where Gemma sat himself at the next workstation. He leaned his hip against the counter beside the high stool. Gemma tipped his head back the slightest amount to meet Dorian’s eyes rather than straighten his posture. He always sat like that, stood too, shoulders slumped as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders for years instead of a few short months.

“Is that all?” Gemma watched him through half closed eyes and a lazy smile. 

Maker, why did he keep smiling? Bull, Varric, Cassandra all noted, more than once, how solemn the Inquisitor was. Even if he laughed his expression remained grave, as if the sound was a pale mimic of humor. Sera called him a stick in the mud. Vivienne once said he would be more handsome if he smiled. Blackwall told Cole to leave the man alone. Solas agreed some hurts can’t be healed.

But with Dorian he smiled. Mostly small and fast fading, but he smiled at Dorian, for him, as if Dorian was something to be happy about.

“Do you have another idea? My velvet voice or superior taste in fashion?”

“Barely the best of you.” Again, he lowered his voice to something undeniably suggestive. “What about your purely seductive genius?”

Dorian let out a startled laugh. “I didn’t realize genius could be seductive or are you just reaching?”

“You never have met a genius comparable to you. A mind like yours, how could I not be completely enamored?”

“Inquisitor, are you coming on to me?”

“No.”

Dorian pretended his heart did not drop the slightest bit.

“If I was coming on to you I would tell you for as fine as I find your mind it’s your body I can’t look away from. If I was coming on to you I would say for as much time as I spend turning your words over, tuning my memory to the perfect timber of that velvet voice, I spend more thinking about what I’d do with your body if I ever got my hands on you.”

At some point Dorian might have stopped breathing. Like an out of body experience, he was surprised to hear himself speak so steadily. “If you were coming on to me.”

“If I was coming on to you.”

Just like that, Gemma broke eye contact and returned to his task. First he poured ground silverite, then a rust red liquid, followed quickly by a black powder. He began mixing, grinding the ingredients together with mechanical motions of the well practiced.

“You’ve noticed when Solas draws from the Fade it’s like slipping under a seam. I’ve worked the heating element in the qadr into a magical conductor. I intended to devise a method to collect residual magic, but it embeds unevenly. Your draw, a counterclockwise vortex, is better suited to spread, but it needs to be delicate. Thinner portal. Neater."

“I don’t remember agreeing.”

Although not careless enough to pause from the quarter rotation of the mortar every three rolls of the pestle, in perfect fifteen second increments, Gemma looked away from his work. He watched Dorian from the corner of his eye for a moment. Then he shook his head and laughed.

“Should I go on?”

“Must I insist?”

The flicker of a smile. “What more would you like?”

Because he was a fool, Dorian didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. The overwhelming want of what he would like constricted his throat and tightened his chest. And because Gemma wasn’t a fool, for all he played one, he knew exactly what it was Dorian wanted. He sighed and Dorian’s heart sunk.

Dorian expected the rejection, however, it didn’t come. Gemma didn’t speak as he set aside the pestle, didn’t look at Dorian as he wiped his hands on a towel. Taking his time, he folded it. For a moment, he sat still and quiet. 

Dorian burned with embarrassment for nothing he did and dread for something he could not name. Very nearly, he tried to cover for the strange lull in conversation and heightening tension. In his charming, completely carefree way he would have lamented Gemma allowed one and deliberately ignored the other. Dorian would have done his best to hide the little vulnerability he allowed in the space of a single moment.

Then Gemma looked up. Nothing sudden in his movement, he reached out towards Dorian. Dorian didn’t move, didn’t lean in to make it easier or back in surprise. He simply stood, too conscious of his breathing, and too aware of the distance in Gemma’s eyes.

Although every motion lent to it, every moment implied where it would go, Dorian was startled when Gemma touched him. His hand cupped the back of Dorian’s head. Scarred and calloused, Gemma stroked his thumb over delicate skin. The slight friction caused goosebumps to rise.

Eyes honest, he studied Dorian. Dorian met his gaze offering no more than Gemma had. He flicked his eyes down to Dorian’s lips. Dorian breathed in too sharp for it to mean nothing. 

Gemma kissed him, a soft thing, but certain. Without waiting to see if Dorian would be receptive, Gemma deepened the kiss. Gemma already gave him all the time in the world, Dorian didn’t dare ask for more. Slow and irresistible, Gemma coaxed Dorian’s mouth open and kissed him until he was panting and heat simmered under his skin.

A slight second before Dorian did something unsightly like moan, Gemma broke the kiss. Hand still cradling Dorian’s head, Gemma remained close, their breathing quick and hearts fast. This time Dorian leaned in, his own hand coming to Gemma’s face, cupping his cheek.

It was strange, the slow pace of it, gradual but all the more intense for it. Dorian swiped his tongue over the two scars cutting over his lips before dipping inside his mouth. Scars there too. 

Gemma’s hand slipped from his head down to his neck, squeezing, directing the slant of his head for better access. This time Dorian did moan.

Again, Gemma broke away. Dorian wanted to tell him to quit fucking around and kiss properly, but the expression on Gemma’s face gave him pause. Head bowed, he didn’t look at Dorian. Eyes closed, he didn’t look at anything, but Dorian didn’t need to see his eyes to recognize the frustration. Too efficiently for Dorian to have managed, Gemma regulated his breathing back to rest and then sighed.

Suddenly, Dorian was desperate not to be caught staring so intently, standing so close. He backed away, gave Gemma the room he clearly needed. When Gemma opened his eyes again, they were as perfectly honest as always. He smiled the slightest bit only for it to falter when he saw how far away Dorian had moved from him.

He cleared his throat. “I suppose that will do?”

“For now.”

#

Too easy to choose.

Gemma fucked up. He had habit of fucking this sort of thing up. Starting it he fucked up. What felt like a lifetime ago Gemma fucked up constantly. As a bard seduction had been another skill in his arsenal. That he rarely fucked up. It was his personal trysts that went bad.

Back then the problem had been his partner would become too invested. Gemma looked for casual, simple. It always started that way. At some point, a point Gemma always missed it, it would take a turn towards intense. He never realized quite how deep he would get until someone was sobbing or screaming.

Times had changed. Gemma knew what Dorian was looking for. Casual. Simple. Gemma fucked up because he didn’t want that anymore. Gemma didn’t want anything anymore. He told himself as much. He was certain of it.

But Dorian, Dorian was too easy to choose.

Gemma didn’t want simple. Gemma didn’t want casual. He wanted nothing. 

He wanted Dorian. 

Gemma fucked up

“You’re a good lad, Dorian,” Gemma said, “don’t throw that away”

Gemma hadn’t known Dorian was invested enough to be that angry. He always missed that point of no return.

=

As much as he sensed her silent presence by instinct he felt her arrival in his heart. Leliana carried a warming fire as much as she did a cutting cold, despite how Marjolaine tried to dampen it. Gemma caught his thumb on the corner of the page, turned it over, and then smoothed it slowly, reading as fast as his thumb moved.

“Speed reading,” Leliana commented, “or is it eidetic memory? Either certainly explains how you managed to copy all of Comtesse de Bayardhidden's ledgers in one night.”

“When I heard you joined the Chantry I memorized the Chant of Light the same hour,” he said, not looking up from the words.

“You’re such a liar, Gemma,” Leliana laughed. “You’ve known the Chant better than a Chanter from the day you were born.”

“An attack on my character, how low.” He finished the chapter, checked the page number, and closed his book. 

“Your own actions are demonstration enough of your character. I need not attack it.”

“Ouch.”

In her teasing way she used when she meant what she said, Leliana said, “it was a compliment of character.”

“Your words cause my fragile heart to quiver.” 

“Have you a heart now?”

“I could have.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure Dorian would be heartened to know.”

"Leliana.”

From another it might have been a barb or even a threat. For Leliana to broach a new topic, one Gemma had been ignoring and one irrelevant to her, she meant to have a conversation.

“You’re allowed to be happy, Gemma.”

Of course she would think so. Of course someone now so hard would go the soft route.

“That’s not what this is about and you know it.”

“Then what is it about?”

Not quite irritated, Gemma narrowed his eyes, searching for a tell. Leliana met his gaze perfectly placid. He looked away, back to the closed book in his hands.

“Nothing will come of it.”

“It’s a not a marriage proposal.”

“I’m not playing around either.”

“How times have changed.”

“Did you think they would stay the same?” Gemma tried for a diversion.” Left Hand of the Divine is quite the title change, Sister Nightingale.”

“No more than bard to terrorist.”

Wrong topic of diversion. Gemma didn’t reply.

“Who were you there to kill?”

“If you already know who I became than you know who it was. It doesn’t matter. She’s dead now.”

“Gemma, we either talk about what you were doing at the Conclave or we talk about why you’ve gone cold towards Dorian.”

“How are those two things equivalent?”

“You have a week.”

“Until what?”

“A week, Gemma.”

Futile he knew, but Gemma tried to protest. “Leliana--”

“Inquisitor,” Leliana bid him farewell.

Sighing, Gemma hung his head. Earning Dorian’s forgiveness, let alone his trust once more would require effort if he was to satisfy Leliana. He could, of course. He thought back to a wiser time, knowing better than to involve himself with Dorian. He knew better now. 

After a moment, he smiled to himself. 

#

Ah, yes, the Inquisitor. Inquisitor Trevelyan. Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor Gemariah Narazius Trevelyan. Gemma.

The Inquisitor himself entered the Herald’s Rest to the cheer of the crowd. Dorian immediately turned in the opposite direction. He looked around for an exit, but as far as he could tell, the only way away was up. He squinted up the dark of the stairwell, more steps than his drunk mind could count without taking them, and wondered how he would fare. Although confident he could get to the battlements, bypass Sera, and Cole if he was lurking, the trick would be getting down and back to his quarters.

“Sparkler.”

Dorian looked down to find Varric staring up at him with a furrowed brow and unfortunately astute look of concern.

“You doing alright there? You look as if you’re contemplating bad choices.”

“I have no idea would you could possibly be referring to.”

“I don’t know if that was supposed to be reassuring because I guarantee it was not. How about you sit down, have a drink. The Inquisitor just walked in and I’m sure he’ll have plenty to share. The entire tavern is buying for that dragon slaying.”

Yes, of course, because Gemma slays dragons. Four dragons now. Or was it five? Dorian couldn’t be sure seeing how he wasn’t invited beyond the first. No doubt it was impressive likely improving as he went. The first time Gemma struck the dragon’s eyes through the whirl of wind as she landed so Dorian wasn’t sure how much better he could be. Dorian just knew if he could be better, he would.

“Really, Varric, you care too much for a dwarf.”

“Pretty sure that was racist.”

“I believe I’ll be turning in early.”

“That’s fine, well, not really, but you do know the exit is that way.” Varric jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

Dorian did not follow, choosing to glare at him instead. They stared each other down.

“Dor--”

“No.”

“Sparkler, just talk to him.”

“What’s to say? ‘Excuse me for my extreme misstep of assuming us to be friends after you asked me if we were.’ Oh, or how about ‘I’m sorry you’re such an unnecessarily enigmatic ass that deciphering your passive aggressive engagements takes a team of cryptologists,’?”

Being a discerning gentlemen, Dorian did not mention certain physical activities.

“To be fair, Sera and Varric are hardly professionals.”

Without sparing him a glance, not a moment of hesitation, Dorian headed the opposite direction of Gemma’s approach. Maybe he was as childish as Gemma once said, but it was better than the alternative.

“Dorian wait.”

Dorian would not wait. Truthfully, he hadn’t realized how much he didn’t want to confront this particular issue until the issue’s hand was closing around his wrist. Expression composed to appear supremely annoyed, but unmoved, Dorian turned to face him.

“Please. I’ll-- At least let me apologize,” Gemma asked of him. Although he bowed his head in repentance, Gemma’s expression showed nothing new. Unsettlingly empty, there was nothing to see on his face. 

“Oh, an apology? An admission you’re wrong, but not an explanation? Classic you, really.”

A half laugh. Maker, Dorian wanted to hate him. 

His thumb stroked the soft skin of Dorian’s inner wrist. Voice low, he said, “you don’t need anyone else for it. You read me just fine.”

Dorian’s breath caught with either want or outrage. Gemma did a poor job of hiding his wince. He let Dorian’s wrist fall from his hand.

“I think we’re done here,” Dorian said coolly. 

Without waiting for a response, Dorian ascended the stairs. He reached the second floor, the sounds of the tavern muffled in his ears. Focused on away, going up, getting out, Dorian took the second set of stairs to the third floor.

_“Let him go. Let him go. He gave you a chance. He gave more than one chance. Threw them away. Hide away. It’s better this way. So many gone. One more shouldn’t matter. It’s better this way. Why does he matter?”_

“Damn it, Cole,” Dorian muttered.

_“Don’t smile at him. So easy to smile. It hardly hurts. Touch him and he doesn’t pull away. You threw it away. It’s better--It hurts, but it’s better this way.”_

“Do you mind? I’m trying very hard to be angry with him.”

“Why?”

Dorian stared at the spirit sitting at the top of the stairs. “What do you mean why? He--” To Cole, Dorian could admit it. Not like he didn’t know anyway. “--he led me on. As pathetic as it is, I thought… I thought it might have meant something.”

“It does. Otherwise it wouldn’t have hurt.”

“Meant something to him, Cole.”

“It does. Otherwise it wouldn’t have hurt.”

Dorian almost wavered. Almost.

_“At least he’s smart enough to leave before I get him killed.”_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

+

“If you’re going to tear kid’s heart out just do it already so the rest of us can get on with our lives.”

“Varric, has anyone ever actually asked you to meddle in their affairs?”

“I wouldn’t say they asked directly, no, but I can read between the lines.”

“There’s nothing between the lines Varric, otherwise they wouldn’t be lines.”

“You’re a real downer sometimes, Inquisitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey. the start of the good parts. or least better parts. thanks for coming. I hope you had a good time. let me know what you think


	5. Chapter 5

Usually Dorian slept easily enough. Somehow, impossibly, despite the impending doom that hung over all their heads, Skyhold gave the illusion of security. Dorian felt safe there. Rational or not, most likely not, he could sleep. Utterly restful compared to the past few years of--

Well. The past few years.

Still, some nights, Dorian struggled to find sleep. A common enough occurrence, he developed specific methods to handle the situation. Most of his pseudo solutions were not healthy, but no one ever accused Dorian of being healthy. Alcohol was the most obvious choice. The problem with being a functioning alcoholic was alcohol didn’t necessarily make him sleepy so much as allowed him to function.

Perhaps if Dorian was healthy he would be more concerned about that.

The next tactic on his list was to commit to not sleeping. Instead he studied in the library until words blurred and specific letters swam around to form nasty messages.

This led to Dorian developing a third, and decidedly less self-destructive method to deal with his insomnia. He began wandering around Skyhold. For as much effort as Josephine put into making the place respectable, countless corridors and numerous towers remained unexplored. Tunnels ran deep below and secret passageways lined the walls. Dorian might have gotten lost more times than he cared to admit, but it did the job of tiring him to exhaustion.

Truthfully, it was Sera who brought the endless maze of infrastructure to his attention. Honestly, Gemma was the one who kept him interested beyond just wearing himself out.

The Inquisitor, much to the lament of their enemies, had a terrible habit of popping up in places no one would expect. Aside from searching him out in the alchemy laboratory, Dorian only crossed paths with Gemma once in a tiny aspe behind a chapal long forgotten. He had been leaving as Dorian arrived. Instead of greeting him, Gemma smiled that small smile and, unncessarily but oh so enticingly, touched his hand to Dorian’s hip as he passed by.

Perhaps a bit startled by the unforeseen presence of the Inquisitor, Dorian failed to speak. Dorian failed to do anything but watch him go.

Embarrassingly enough, that chance meeting alone gave Dorian incentive enough to wander aimlessly. Who else would be mad enough to explore a crumbling keep with actual skeletons trapped in ancient halls?

Gemma, of course.

While the stone banister he perched on appeared stable enough, it was anchored to a half collapsed balcony overlooking a waterfall. Dorian wondered how Skyhold, a place on a mountain, managed to have two separate waterfalls. Marvelous.

The water roared loud enough Dorian couldn’t hear his own thoughts, let alone his own footsteps, but at his approach, Gemma glanced over his shoulder. He met Dorian’s eyes. That little half smile.

Gemma held up a bottle, as if toasting Dorian, before raising it to his lips and turning back around. A wave of emotion swept through Dorian at that simple gesture. Dorian didn’t know what it was or what it meant, but it made him want to do something. It made him want to grab Gemma by the arm, drag him off, demand answers. It made him want to shove the bastard. It made Dorian want to kiss him.

It made his stomach clench and his eyes burn and oh, how passionately Dorian hated this. So stupid of him, so silly, to be twisted up inside over a man with the emotional capacity of a pear skin. What had they even done beyond kissing and comfort after a few traumatic events? What had Gemma said at all? Dorian talked so often, constantly affirming the casual nature of it all, disclaimers of emotional investment.

There wasn’t even anything for Gemma to break off. He just

Stopped.

He had to know Dorian was still there, standing behind him, staring at the back of his head. Gemma drank again.

Without nerve to do anything else, but too humiliatingly wanting to walk away, Dorian went over to join him. He did so in a casual saunter, putting on his most flippant persona in case Gemma bothered to observe. He didn’t, of course.

Dorian didn’t bother trying to speak, the noise of crashing water would no doubt drown out his voice. Maybe that was why Gemma was there, so he wouldn’t have to hear. There was a comfort in that Dorian could appreciate. Sighing to himself, Dorian leaned forward and rested his elbows beside where Gemma sat.

The only acknowledgement Gemma gave was to pass the bottle. Dorian hesitated. For a moment he could only stare, the situation taking on a surreal quality. It was quite literally standing on the edge of a cliff. Dorian didn’t know what he was doing there. While every sense told him he would surely die if he fell, he wanted to jump. Gemma gave no promises. Gemma barely gave anything at all.

Dorian would hit the ground. No one would catch him.

He accepted the bottle.

As if relieved, Gemma closed his eyes and tipped his head back. Dorian looked away just so he didn’t have to look at him, didn’t have to see his gray hair, the gaunt of his cheeks, or the scars that littered his face, things that didn’t belong on one so young. Maybe Gemma meant it more than in years when he said Dorian was young.

Dorian drank. He swallowed hard at the implications of the taste. Aqua Magus: lyrium infused liquor. Perhaps if he could have been heard over the volume of the waterfall he would have asked Gemma if he was a madman or an idiot. Gemma would have said he was both. Already shaking his head, Dorian moved to pass it back.

Gemma caught his wrist, squeezing hard. Off guard again, Dorian jerked his attention back to him, finding Gemma’s eyes fixed on him. They stared at each other for a heartbeat before Gemma leaned over and kissed him. 

Unlike before, that teasing, playful, throw away, Gemma kissed in the way Nevarrians wrote romantic tragedies. Hot, pressing, not a demand, but a plea, Gemma seemed intent on drawing Dorian into the same. He dropped Dorian’s wrist to catch him by the back of the neck, to pull him in, kiss him harder. Dorian went, so easily.

Dorian couldn’t hear Gemma’s moan, but he could feel it. The feeling of it set off a sensation inside of him, crooning in both Gemma’s pleasure and his own.

It was glorious. 

It was terrible.

He reeked of liquor, more than just this, and tasted heady with lyrium. The man was drunk and likely high. Maker, Dorian couldn’t do this. 

Before Dorian had to find out how weak he was for this, Gemma pulled away first. He didn’t let go. Instead, he rested his forehead against Dorian’s. Mesmerised, Dorian watched the heavy raise and fall of his chest, the bob of his throat. When he raised his eyes, he found Gemma’s gaze locked on him.

Gemma dipped his head, kissed Dorian’s cheek, and slowly, like it pained him, leaned back. He didn’t remove his hand from the back of Dorian’s neck. It rested there, strong and heavy, thumb stroking up and down.

He said something.

It wasn’t as though Dorian could lip read.

Dorian said, “fuck you.”

Gemma _smirked_. Likely he could lip read. Not that it would have been required for those particular words.

“I hate you. That you can make me like this. I hate that you only seem open to the idea of touching me for more than three seconds is when you’re drunk. I hate that you keep touching me when you’re sober even though you have no intention of doing anything more. I especially hate--and I cannot emphasize this enough--I hate that I stopped giving a damn about your intentions because I’m just grateful to have you touching me.”

Yes, Gemma could most certainly read lips. Dorian could tell by the way he wasn’t smiling anymore. By now Dorian expected he would have pulled away. He expected Gemma to withdraw, close off, remove his hand and distance his eyes. He expected Gemma to be Inquisitor Trevelyan.

Gemma said something that might have been his name. Dorian scowled in return.

Shoulders slumping with a sigh, Gemma leaned in once more. He didn’t shout, there was no strain in his voice, but it rung in Dorian’s ear.

“Don’t know if you heard, but I’m a piece of shit.”

_What._

Before Dorian could demand clarification or adamantly agree, Gemma’s lips moved from his ear to his throat. He nipped at the corner of Dorian’s jaw before sucking on the soft skin right underneath. Dorian moaned. Gemma laughed against his throat.

#

Gemma wouldn’t go so far as to say that Leliana was right, but he hesitated to declare her wrong. He made the mistake multiple times before he realized exactly how much more clever she was than him. Back then his ego dictated a lot more of his behavior. Back then the only cost of being wrong was his own life.

Since then Leliana’s cunning increased. If anything Gemma became stupider. Humbled, yes, but also much stupider. Rather alarming considering since he bowed out of the Grand Game a lot more was at stake. He hadn’t needed to see "consequences" etched on a tombstone to know how much his stupidity cost him.

So, yes, Leliana went soft and fell in love with a Grey Warden, but she was still smarter than him. If Leliana said he should do something stupid like trust, Gemma figured he’d give it a shot. He’d try really really hard, because for some reason Dorian was still around. It was fucking suspicious. 

Trust. Right.

With that in mind, Gemma ambled into Solas’s office where Dorian and Solas discussed the pull of the rifts affecting targeted spells and specific classes of magic. Solas gave him a nod of acknowledgement, and Dorian glanced at him with a small smile. Gemma returned it. Dorian played it casual, always did. Perhaps if Gemma didn’t have the history he did, where body language was part of survival, he would have believed him.

Instead, Gemma saw the slight shift in his body, the lean away, a deliberate attempt to control his reflexive draw to Gemma. Gemma noted that Dorian spared him a glance, and although appropriate, the smile hadn’t been practiced at all. 

Fuck.

Shit.

Dorian genuinely liked him. Dorian was too smart for this.

Everything in Gemma told him to turn around and walk away. Walk out of Skyhold. Walk off a cliff. Dorian was too smart for this and Gemma was much too stupid. 

Trust. Right.

Instead of walking away like every instinct urged him to, Gemma inserted himself into the conversation, because fuck it. 

“Listen to Solas,” Gemma suggested. Not subtle at all, he eased over to Dorian until they were inches apart, and very deliberately touched his hand to the small of Dorian’s back. “Complaining about it won’t change it. Compensating for the gravitation change caused by rifts isn’t enough unless you’re willing to measure distance and direction from the nearest rifts every time you cast. You’re going to have to amend each spell specifically for precision purposes.”

Like a true friend, Solas made no comment on his actions and instead nodded in agreement of his words. “Exactly.”

“You’re being rather condescending.” Dorian tsk’d. Despite stiffening against Gemma’s unexpected touch, Dorian allowed it and continued on. “I’m not an idiot. It’s a matter of convenience. Unless you are suggesting I customize each spell in my arsenal.”

“If you wish to properly possess corpses, yes, I am.” Solas arched an eyebrow in challenge. “Your inelegant solution to prevent ionization of flame cannot be expected to work with necromancy.”

“Nor did I expect so. The crux of the matter is edited casting or not, there is no way to rapidly cast with the same consistency while we battle demons falling from rifts seeing how the rift itself fluctuates with every spawning, and then this one flailing his anchor about.”

Gemma might have smiled a little bit more.

“True enough,” Solas agreed. After a pause of contemplation, Solas said, “Perhaps--

“Hey, Chuckles,” Varric strolled into the office with much more entitlement than Gemma. “I got a little bit of a problem I could use your…” Seeing all three of them, he trailed off. He looked from Gemma’s face to where he rested his hand on Dorian, and then back to his face. A slow smirk spread across his lips. “Why, Inquisitor, fancy seeing you here.”

“I fancy seeing you everywhere,” Gemma accidentally, automatically flirted. Not as though Dorian wouldn’t do the same. 

Solas, bless his heart, moved the conversation along. “What is it you wish for me to assist with?”

“You know, I think the Inquisitor might be better suited for this.”

Gemma and Varric stared each other down.

After a moment, Gemma said, “of course, my friend.”

Before moving to follow Varric, Gemma looked to Dorian. Brow slightly furrowed and eyes just a bit skeptical, he watched Gemma. Then, because Gemma never met a situation he couldn’t fuck up, he leaned in and kissed Dorian on the cheek. Very slowly, he pulled away. Dorian’s face went from skeptical to disbelieving.

Although Solas didn’t do so audibly, Gemma could sense his groan of exasperation. With nothing else to contribute, Gemma turned away from him, towards the dwarf grinning much too smugly.

“Shall we?” Gemma asked, voice carefully neutral.

“Let’s shall.”

=

A backhanded compliment, Bull commented about the complexity of the chemistry required by the art of the Tempest. Gemma almost sneered when Bull said humans might figure out the formula to gaatlok within years. Not to say the Iron Bull was an idiot, but the Qunari as a whole were too fucking cocky.

He assumed Gemma bought gaatlok from smugglers to blow something up. Despite Gemma giving him all the pieces to realize otherwise, Bull never seemed to consider Gemma hired the Carta to steal it. Not enough to be noticed, just enough for Gemma to reverse engineer it.

Gemma bought gaatlok and then improved upon it.

Arrogant sons of bitches, those Qunari. If they had a solution to a problem, they utilized the solution, but never saw the potential beyond it. Another flaw in the inflexibility of the Qun was the absolute belief in its perfection. 

In the position he had been in at the time, assassin, agent of the Mage Underground, friend of the Mage Collective, terrorist, and whatever they wanted to call him, supersonic ignition and detonation were too obvious. A heat transfer through subsonic combustion allowed Gemma to burn down whatever the fuck he wanted without smoke. Flash fires, he could burn Templars alive in seconds.

What delagration did for his Flasks, fuck, it was beautiful. 

But he could do better.

Dorian touched his shoulder. Gemma didn’t look up from the clay pot. He finished measuring out the barium nitrate and then reached for the bottle of condensed dragon venom. When his hand met empty air he frowned and looked up.

Dorian stood beside him, holding the bottle. Gemma frowned harder.

“I need that.”

“I know,” Dorian replied.

Gemma stared.

“Remember how you asked me to join you in your laboratory?”

Yeah. Gemma remembered. He spent at least ten minutes beforehand trying to figure out how to phrase it. He wanted Dorian there right then because he needed a favor, but Leliana said only asking to spend time together when he needed something from Dorian made him a dick. So Gemma did his best to make sure Dorian knew he was welcome any time, but also Gemma needed him right then.

“Yeah, I remember.” He had been there.

“You never explained why.”

Ah. Fair. Mostly, because he wanted to give Dorian as little time as possible to say no. Gemma swiped his tongue over his bottom lip. “There’s a chance this might go from ignition to combustion a bit faster than would be preferable.”

“What would be preferable?”

“Not burning me alive.”

Dorian gave him a flat look. “And how much of a chance is there exactly?”

“Exactly?”

Dorian arched an eyebrow. Fuck, he was good at that. Gemma tried not to smile. Most times if Gemma smiled at him, Dorian became defensive. While not a completely unreasonable reaction, Gemma couldn’t quite verbalize why he shouldn’t be.

“About eighty three point four six percent chance.”

“ _Eighty three point four six percent._ ”

“Ah, well, there would be if I took my usual safety precautions, since you’re here, I haven’t. Now, it’s closer to ninety nine point ninety nine percent. I’d say one hundred, but there are no absolutes in physics.”

“Are you an idiot?” Dorian asked, no doubt rhetorical.

“Yes,” Gemma answered anyway, completely honest. Trust.

“Gemma.”

“Yes?”

“Do you even want me here?”

“I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t.”

As if the fight left him, Dorian sighed. He set the bottle back within Gemma’s reach. Quietly, he said, “perhaps it would be better if Solas assisted you.”

Yeah, it would be. Solas had a much more intricate understanding of chemistry than Dorian. Gemma might be an idiot, but he at least knew not to say as much to Dorian at that moment. When it came down to it, Gemma wanted Dorian there, not Solas. As if Leliana was there to smack the back of his head, Gemma suddenly understood.

Shit. 

Fuck.

Alright he could fix this. Instead of picking up the bottle, Gemma slid it further away. Dorian watched, face impassive, as Gemma eased himself to a stand. Already near, Gemma closed the few inches between them until they nearly touched. Gemma bowed his head, lips a breath from Dorian’s.

“Do you know why I want you here?”

“Because Solas would take offense to you ignoring his presence for two hours?” Dorian offered, entirely unmoved by the intimate distance.

Gemma almost winced. Two hours. He wondered how many questions Dorian must have asked before realizing Gemma didn’t hear him. He almost apologized. Fletch broke him of that. _Sorry means you won’t do it again._

Maybe Dorian would be offended, but Gemma was already too honest with him. There was no going back now. “I trust you. I don’t feel like I need to watch my back, watch you.”

“You ignore me because you trust me. Brilliant.”

When he put it that way it didn’t sound great, no.

“I’m trying.”

“Trying to ignore me or trying to trust me?” Dorian did a believable impression of amused. “Because I assure you, you are doing one of those two things quite well.”

“I’m trying to be honest, Dorian.”

Dorian’s silence caused Gemma’s heart to constrict. He did not like this feeling.

“Well, that’s alarming.”

“Fuck, I know.”

#

After Gemma drunk kissed Dorian and Dorian’s following embarrassingly heartfelt confession, things changed. Gemma stopped lying to Dorian.

Gemma himself admitted to being a liar. Leliana said as much. As far as Dorian could tell, Gemma never said something concrete enough to be a lie. What Dorian didn’t quite realize the extent of was that Gemma didn’t tell lies with words. Gemma lied with his behavior. He lied with his actions, his body language, his eyes, his attitude.

Gemma’s entire persona of Inquisitor was a lie. Once Dorian realized as much, the situation took on a surreal quality because everyone else truly believed that lie.

In public, Gemma behaved almost exactly the same as before. He walked like an older man might shuffle and his back hurt. Same as before he wore an expression of perpetual concern. He spoke softly, but firmly, and said little beyond what was the line of polite. 

The very very distinct difference of his public persona was how he handled Dorian. And it was handling. Without words, Gemma made sure everyone inside the room knew he wanted Dorian there. Unhesitantly, Gemma touched Dorian, the small of his back, his inner wrist, his neck, obvious places that indicated intimacy. 

All things considered, Dorian felt very very stupid for asking Gemma if he would be bothered by gossip. 

Of course, Dorian could have handled this like a mature adult. He could have asked Gemma what it meant or he could have told him to stop. Instead, Dorian began avoiding him publicly. 

In private, the sudden shift of Gemma’s behavior was far more jarring. Dorian didn’t realize how much he took for granted Gemma answering questions or even acknowledging his existence until Gemma would forget to. 

When he did speak, it sounded more genuine, cynical, self-deprecating, and often sarcastic and somewhat bitter. Dorian wasn’t sure what that meant in regards to him, but he wasn’t sure he liked it.

In contrast to the waning of words, Gemma became much more physical. The subtle touches, the patient wooing that annoyed Dorian for the slow pace changed dramatically. Being alone with Gemma meant one of two things. Either Gemma ignored Dorian while he worked; or the moment they were alone Gemma would be on him, crowding him against a wall, hands everywhere, lips on his throat.

Dorian could handle him so much better in private than in public.

Too late, Dorian realized staying in Gemma’s quarters overnight had become a regular occurrence. This development was especially uncomfortable, even troubling, when Dorian also realized some of those nights Gemma wouldn’t even be there before Dorian fell asleep. Some nights, Gemma left before Dorian woke. He simply allowed Dorian to stay in his bed.

The ease in which all of this occurred was, quite frankly, alarming. 

Perhaps if not for the nights where Gemma did wake him, Dorian would have done more introspection regarding it. The dip of the mattress under Gemma’s weight disturbed Dorian just enough to pull him from sleep. Countless times Gemma slipped into bed without waking him. This action was deliberate.

Dorian peeked an eye open.

Instead of lying down, Gemma sat on the edge of the bed, still fully clothed. Patiently waiting for Dorian, he looked towards the window, to the night sky. Dorian still did not know why stars fascinated Gemma so. Dorian wrinkled his nose at the chemical fumes coming off of him, but knew better than to comment at this point.

Loud enough to draw his attention, Dorian sighed. Gemma glanced down to him, expression as solemn as the one he faked for the Inquisition. Irrational for such a small thing, but it caused something in Dorian’s chest to tighten.

Hesitantly, Gemma raised his hand. When Dorian gave no reaction, he raked his fingers through Dorian’s hair messing it. Before Dorian could complain, Gemma bowed, dipping his head to kiss Dorian’s temple. He combed his fingers through Dorian’s hair again, messing it worse than the first time.

“Are you quite finished?”

Gemma nuzzled his cheek. “No.”

Now close, Dorian could smell the sweet scent of lyrium under it all. More experiments. Either Tempest Flasks or explosives, Gemma rarely developed anything not meant for offensive purposes.

Sliding his hand to cradle the back of his head, Gemma tried to kiss Dorian the same as before, but Dorian rolled to his back instead. He caught Gemma’s lips with his own. Like he had doubted Dorian welcoming him, Gemma sighed in relief. The kiss was not long, but it was enough for Dorian to wake up. To want more.

Instead, Gemma sat up. His hand slid from Dorian’s head to his neck, stroking softly. What could have been pain flashed across his features.

“When you’re done brooding, I’ll be here, waiting, wanting. You know, like the lovelorn damsel in one of Varric’s books.”

“Why do you mention Varric so often when we’re in bed?”

“Not nearly as much as you. I think I’m developing a complex. Besides, you’re not in bed, are you? Speaking of which, why are you not in bed?”

“I’m not staying.”

“Oh, silly me to assume you would be sleeping in your own bed after you invited me to it.”

“I didn't invite you to my bed.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes, but managed to clamp down his retort just barely. Gemma’s smile was too sly.

“I invited you to spend the night with me.”

“The difference?”

“With me is outside. In here is the bed.”

Dorian looked from Gemma’s small smile, to the frost on the window panes, back to Gemma and the flicker of hope in his eyes. Dorian sighed.

“I suppose I’ll get dressed.”

Gemma kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look how cute and happy they are. I can't wait to ruin it


	6. Chapter 6

_Water dripped irregularly in three different places. Gemma listened. He listened to the om of wind, the draft chilly in the decrypt fort. In his own quiet, he listened to the steps of the Templars in the plated armor and leather soles, even steps, not quite marching, but military even in the most liberal off moments. They chatted, soft murmurs. Gemma barely breathed._

_Above them, Gemma crept carefully, listening to muted creaks of support beams, gauging the give of each. He’d never hear the end of it if he fell because of rotten wood. Far down the corridor, Hawke began her blood magic ritual. The Templars stiffened, stilling. They sensed it._

_Gemma smiled as he slide on his knuckle knife._

_Silent hand signals, two moved ahead as with urgent speed, what they thought was stealthy. The largest of them drew his greatsword, close behind. The last readied his bow and followed. Gemma dropped from the ceiling less than a step behind him. The first of the leading two burst into the chamber, dodging to the left and the second to the right. A red arrow, crystalized blood, shot the head the third Templar._

_Gemma cut the throat of the archer._

_A battle cry and a roar of outrage, the Templars attacked Hawke. Gemma sprinted forward. While, not particularly concerned about the Champion of Kirkwall, it’d be rude not to check in. A barrier of red, a bubble of blood, surrounded her, their attacks glancing off. When she saw Gemma appear, she smiled. Gemma nearly laughed._

_A mage of Hawke’s power, a blood mage of spirit and soul, Meredith let walk around freely and now her magic skinned Templars alive. The blood spraying from them never hit the ground, rising up to form perfect spheres above them._

_Bloodless, their bodies collapsed, armor crashing against the stone floor._

_“Perfect,” Hawke purred._

_She uncapped her two enchanted demijohns. By her will alone, the two orbs of blood unravelled, funneling into the glass jugs. When she first suggested her plan, Gemma had been wary. The more recently a Templar dosed, the more lyrium in their blood, the better they nullified magic. The more lyrium in their blood, the more difficult it was for it to be manipulated by magic._

_Apparently not for Hawke. Apparently Hawke wanted lyrium bonded blood._

_“You didn’t even have to beat someone’s face in this time,” Hawke said, very pleased with the outcome compared to how cranky she normally was. “Nicely done.”_

_Gemma barely did anything this time. Still, he was the one who intercepted their orders, the one who lured them in, and his team were the ones outside, ambushing the last two guarding the captured mages._

_After digging around in the satchel strapped to her thigh, Hawke withdrew a small burlap wrapped package. She tossed to him. Once in his hand, Gemma felt the weight of it, the shape, and then nodded._

_“Always a pleasure, Serah Hawke.”_

_“Someday you’re going to take that mask off for me, Firefly.”_

_“Someday,” Gemma humored her. He tucked the package away and then looked to her one last time._

_An elf sood behind her. Gemma stared. Whatever Hawke was saying became a droning. Gemma met Solas’s eyes._

_“Fuck.”_

-

Previous to the Conclave, Gemma rarely dealt with the possibly his identity might be exposed. Not many searched for it. No one would have expected a Trevelyan, bastard son or not, to be the figurehead of his organization. Truthfully, Gemma hadn’t meant to be the figurehead. He hadn’t meant to form an organization or become its leader.

He really hadn’t meant to build reputation enough to be singled out, but he supposed that’s what happened when you rained fire down wearing a very distinctive mask in a very public place. The Chantry instantly branded him a terrorist. The Rivaini Seers were the ones to name him with sadornic pride 

_Firefly_ in trader’s tongue. In Rivaini it translated closer to burning beetle. Rivaini culture believed beetles to be ill omens. In the years that followed, his people began carving beetles into Chantry doors. Click beetles infested the Circle, driving Templars mad. They filled the mouths of Templar Hunters with glow worms. When they faced the Qunari, protected Tal-Vashoth mages, scarabs flew.

When they spread to Free Marches swarms of ladybirds followed. That had been unintentional, just the season and overpopulation, but Fletch laughed and laughed as they flew around them.

Another title after another accident, Gemma now faced the possibility of his past being exposed to the very people who hunted him. Leliana held the secret over him already, but she understood the need for silence when faced with a greater enemy.

The one he couldn’t be sure about was the apostate elf from nowhere. Most likely Solas saw the futility of revealing it. Solas of all people was more concerned about Corypheus than the wellbeing of the Chantry’s faithful.

Overall, Gemma couldn’t really drudge up enough worry to do anything about it. Nothing could be done. What could he do to Solas? What could the Inquisition do to Gemma? Kill him? If only he would be so lucky. Torture? Long ago Gemma learned how to fry his nervous system should such an likely occasion arise. It wasn’t as if there was anything left to take from him. It was as though there was anyone left…

Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck.

Of course this would be why Leliana encouraged him. Of course. Gemma lost his edge long ago. He woke up, blood of a Grand Cleric still on his clothes, and there she was. There, already accepting whatever fate in store for him, Gemma forgot he could gain things to lose.

Out of all the ways she could go about controlling him, Gemma supposed it was the kindest, sweet if not ironic. He supposed she knew as well to know his affection for Dorian might be enough for him to hesitate, even if it wouldn’t stop him. That was all she needed though. Leliana wasn’t dulled like Gemma. Leliana wouldn’t hesitate.

Better he ignore it. Maybe Solas would have too, if not for what happened at Adamant. Maybe if their eyes hadn’t met when the Nightmare spoke to Gemma.

_“What have you done, Inquisitor? Is there anything your touch does not burn? What will be left but ash?”_

Maybe Solas would have left Gemma’s dream buried in his own if not for Hawke lingering at Skyhold. Maybe this conversation would not be happening.

It started with them debriefing as they often did, Solas more fired up than usual. Gemma leaned against the edge of his desk and watched him pace.

“Responsibility does not imply expertise. Action is not inherently better than inaction,” Solas said, his normally stoic control slipping the way it only did around Gemma.

“I know, Solas,” Gemma said, unthinking, tired, too at ease with someone who he should have thought of as a stranger, but ended up as friends.

Solas stopped, pivoting around to study Gemma. The meaning behind it didn’t quite register until he spoke again, quieter than before, controlled once more.

“I suppose you would know, lethallin.”

“Fuck,” Gemma muttered, hanging his head.

“You never curse your Maker,” Solas commented with a wry smile.

“No more than you curse your gods.”

Solas chuckled, a soft sound, but honest.

Sensing the inevitability of it, if not now than in the weeks to come, Gemma raised his head to look at Solas once more. “How long?”

“Since you first fell out of the fade at Haven. I burned her eyes rather than Seeker find them on you.”

Shit. “Shit.”

“Would Sister Nightingale have protected you even then?”

“She knows,” Gemma admitted. Tipping his head back, Gemma looked up to where the bird cages hung.

“Yet still you stand a free man.”

“Am I?”

“Fair question.”

Better to have the information than now, Gemma asked, “how much have you seen?”

“I revealed myself as soon as I realized it was your dream I stumbled into. It was a careless mistake I have made certain not to repeat.”

Gemma nodded. He looked back to his hands resting on his lap, calloused, burned, scarred, hands that caused more death before being burdened with the anchor than after.

“I don’t expect to win. I just intend to do as much damage as I can before I die,” Gemma said quietly. He wasn’t sure he meant to. He knew he shouldn’t.

“Admirable.”

Gemma snapped his head up to stare at Solas. Solas met his gaze, a faint smile passing over his face.

“You’re not the only one with a past, Inquisitor.”

“No,” Gemma murmured, “no, I’m not.” 

“I do have one question.”

“Solas, I don’t think I could deny you even if I wanted to.”

“You did take your mask of for her, didn’t you?”

“Eventually,” Gemma admitted, “I did a lot of things for Hawke I wouldn’t have done for anyone else.” He smiled to himself. Fuck, he never used to be this gross inside. “It’s hard to say ‘no’ to Natalia Hawke.”

#

A perfectly normal day at Skyhold, the birds sang, Cullen stood on a knife’s edge over a wobbly desk, a shit covered conte screamed obscenities at poor Josephine, and the scent of burning chemicals wafted down the hall.

While Dorian had the utmost trust in Gemma’s risk assessment when working with dangerous materials, he had less trust in that Gemma would take the proper precautions for the assessed risks. If the man feared death, he did a poor job of respecting it. Perhaps the lack of screaming should have been a comfort, but Dorian had also witnessed Gemma pop his arm back in place, calmly explain that said arm had been ripped out of the socket enough he was now very good at it, and then proceeded to stab a man to death with the same hand.

So severe injury did not necessarily cause screaming, no.

When Dorian reached the laboratory, he found the door open and Gemma nowhere to be found. Solas, however, was present. The elf stood in front of the shelves stacked to the ceiling, scanning the labels of the hundreds of glass bottles.

“What a pleasant surprise. If it isn’t our resident hobo apostate trespassing.”

A hint of a laugh left Solas. Dorian didn’t much care for the sound.

“Trespassing implies a lack of permission.”

“So you were invited.”

“Of course.” Solas picked up one bottled, read the label that ran around the side, and then replaced it. “I have been told I am always welcome here. However, he did extend particular instruction for this occasion, although vague.”

Although irrational, and most likely unfair, every word out of Solas’s mouth grated on Dorian’s ears. He strolled further into the room, with the most tangible amount of entitlement he could.

“Oh?”

Obviously Solas would never volunteer information, so he remained silent. Ignoring Dorian, he frowned slightly and moved from the shelves to the cabinet beside them.

“What are you looking for?”

Solas glanced at him before looking away in wordless, somehow belittling, dismissal. Dorian was not imagining it. He opened the cabinet and began searching through the contents

“Perhaps I may be of assistance?” Dorian oh-so-generously offered.

Sighing, Solas relented. “Do you know where he keeps his mercury?”

“What for?”

A hint of annoyance crossed Solas’s face. “I require it for a particular pigment.”

“Of--you’re mixing paint?”

“That was implied, yes. Many of the chemicals used in explosives can be used for paint coloration as well.”

“The more you know,” Dorian mused. “Is your mutual love for flammable materials why you two get along so swimmingly?”

Solas returned to his search, apparently resigned to Dorian being of little use. “There is a line between learning and knowing too much. You are always dangerously close to crossing it.”

Sauntering by, Dorian began poking around Gemma’s work area, not really looking for anything. “I will take that as a compliment.”

Quietly, Solas said, “it isn’t.”

Dorian paused from his snooping to look at Solas. “Are we still talking about paint?”

Dorian expected a snappy or bristling reply, something vague and defensive, if he got one at all. Solas stopped his search to face Dorian.

“You want for knowledge you are not equipped to deal with, Dorian. I do not wish you ill.”

“Excuse me, but what?”

“Gemma,”

His friends call him Gemma, Dorian thought bitterly. Again, it was irrational. Dorian had the same privileges as Solas. Well, maybe not all the same. Dorian felt a bit better.

“Do not ask him a question unless you are prepared for the answer. Despite my warning to him, if you ask him, he will no doubt tell you.”

“Are you--is this a threat? Advice? I need the ambiguity of your ominous predictions cut by at least a third or it’s simply going to go right over my head.”

“‘If you wish to know him, I hope you are able to live with what you learn,’ is clear enough, yes?”

“Lack of knowledge does no one good, Solas.”

“Dirthara-ma, Dorian.”

#

Gemma fucked up. Classic him, really. Stupid of him, so yeah, a real Gemma move. He never should have gotten so comfortable. Walking among his enemies, daily, being revered by them, he hadn’t forgotten, but it softened his edge. 

The visit to Val Royeaux started fine. Most of Gemma’s mistakes started just fine. 

Gemma left Skyhold more than a few days ago. Sera came along because he knew she liked to run around her city, keep the rich shits on their toes. Since their relationship become less antagonistic and more of a friendship, Gemma invited Cassandra to accompany him more. This pleased her, even if she suspected he did so because of her status as Seeker.

The Right Hand of Divine opened doors expertly.

Lastly, Gemma asked Dorian if he would like to go. Really he shouldn’t have. Taking Dorian anywhere was a risk because when Dorian was with him Gemma had a hard time noticing anything else.

Since he was a selfish prick, Gemma convinced Cassandra they should all take time to themselves. He said “how much trouble can I get in in Val Royeaux?” Cassandra had given him a look that said she knew exactly how much trouble he could get in, but she shook her head and allowed it. Maybe it was the romantic in her, but she understood Gemma’s ulterior purpose of getting Dorian alone.

Sera jumped at the chance to go off on her own, visit her old haunts, and make her rounds with her people. With a cackle, She left out a window despite the open door. 

“So, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, knowing smile on his lips, “any big plans for your ‘alone time’?”

Because Gemma couldn’t help being a bit of a shit, he said, “meeting my hook up. There’s some supplies I’d rather not spend Inquisition coin on.”

“Ah.” Dorian most likely wouldn’t appreciate being called cute, but Gemma found his poorly hidden disappointment adorable.

Smirking just a little bit, he circled around Dorian to his other side, caught his wrist in his hand and leaned close. “Ever grease the palm of a dirty dwarf for illicit explosives, Lord Pavus?”

Pretending Gemma wasn’t crowding his space, Dorian answered coolly. “Can’t say that I have.”

Somehow whatever Dorian said always pleased Gemma. He touched his forehead against Dorian’s temple and lowered his voice. “Would you like to?”

Finally, Dorian smiled too. “No, but I wouldn’t mind tagging along if you’re going to.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

+

Gemma thought he was funny.

After so long believing in the somber persona Gemma perpetuated, Dorian didn’t catch on right away. At first he thought Gemma played with him, jerking him around because he knew Dorian already invested too much of himself. What made him realize otherwise was the look of panic on Gemma’s face when Dorian reacted rather poorly to what he now knew to be teasing.

For this reason, Dorian began waiting for a conversation to play out before he became totally disgusted. Although he didn’t always appreciate Gemma prodding him for reactions, he did at least appreciate the attention Gemma gave him when doing so. 

No, it might not be the most functional form of communicating, but Dorian would take what he could get. He assured himself at some point they would find a happy medium. Until then it would be trial and error of Dorian attempting to interpret Gemma’s sporadic behavior and Gemma struggling to communicate like a normal human being.

Strange how obvious someone’s deeply internalized issues become once they stopped lying to you all the time.

However, for the afternoon, they were managing. As usual, Gemma made a point of touching Dorian in public. Or maybe it was less a point and more a habit. Maybe, possibly, Gemma wasn’t making a statement. Maybe he simply wanted that contact.

What was Dorian supposed to make of that?

Not for the first time, Dorian noted that while Gemma insisted on the contact, it was never to hold hands. He touched Dorian and allowed Dorian the same, but never, never laced his fingers with Dorian’s. He never allowed his hands to be impeded even the most miniscule amount.

Hand resting on his shoulder, Gemma ushered Dorian towards the spiral stairs to the second level of the market. Above the breeze grew stronger, but so did the warmth of the sun. From where they walked Dorian could see the water and the ships leaving port. When he looked back to Gemma, he found him smiling.

“Maker, you’re awkward.”

Gemma laughed. It struck Dorian this might be the first time he ever saw Gemma happy instead of stiff replica of what joy should be. 

“You have no fucking idea,” Gemma agreed in that self-belittling way.

Before Dorian could reply, Sera and her impeccable timing interrupted. Dropping from nowhere, she landed on the banister and placed her hands on her hips. Gemma pressed his thumb against Dorian’s neck and rubbed soothing circles. Dorian tried not to enjoy it so much.

“Inquizzy, you’re gettin’ a real rep, innit you?”

Dorian arched an eyebrow. “At this point I should hope so.”

Sera scoffed. “Not about you knobs. I meant with my people.”

Gemma stiffened, his grip on Dorian tightening the slightest bit. Frowning, Dorian looked over to find Gemma still as death and face blank. Even Sera sensed the wrongness of it.

“What’s your problem?”

“What’s the message?” Gemma asked in his polite, but stern Inquisitor voice.

“How do you know I got a message for you?”

“Sera.” This time there was nothing polite in his tone.

“Geez, alright.” Sera scowled. She dug around in her pocket until she withdrew a tiny bottle. “It’s just a dead bug. Said you’d know what it meant.”

Gemma snatched it from the air in the same second she tossed it. As quick as he caught it, Gemma spared a moment to study it before it vanished from his hand. The tumtulous energy Dorian associated with him in battle, that of the Tempest, rose in full force. Without warning, he dragged Dorian back from the balcony and shoved him into the alcove hidden by ivy. 

“Excuse you--” Dorian started, but Gemma ignored him.

“Sera, find Cassandra and tell her the Hunters from Tantervale are here.”

“What the f’ is that supposed to mean?”

“She’ll know,” Gemma snapped, already turning from her, to Dorian. 

It struck Dorian, right then, for the very first time, he might be seeing Gemma worried.

“Friggin’ shit, you’re serious.”

Dorian gave her a flat look over Gemma’s shoulder. Sera rolled her eyes and huffed, but Dorian assumed she complied when she backflipped off the banister and disappeared from view. As if Dorian didn’t get an opinion on the matter, most likely Gemma didn’t think he should, Gemma backed Dorian against the wall and then shoved him into the corner.

“Are you going to explain or am I supposed to stand around and be useless?”

“You’re not useless,” Gemma said, lockpicking kit already out and at work on the window lock. “You’re very pretty to look at.”

“Wonderful.” Dorian muttered.

Gemma caught him by the wrist and tugged, trying to usher him through the window. As much as he wanted to put up a fight on principle, Dorian rolled his eyes and went, Gemma jostling him from behind to hurry. 

“If I’m so pretty it won’t hurt you to look at me while you explain yourself.” 

Back to him, Gemma sealed the window shut with a resin smelling faintly of almonds. As fast as he produced it, he screwed the cap back on the small container and tucked it away. A tiny metal contraption appeared in the same hand. With the fine control, Gemma tuned it and then placed it on the sill of the window. The entire process took less than thirty seconds.

Backing away, he pointed to three spots. “Set wards against impact in those three places and then one against heat along the wall and then we need to go.”

“What? Why?” Dorian demanded, although already casting.

“Precaution in case they’re already stalking us.”

Dorian barely finished before Gemma was dragging him along.

“You know I can direct myself, yes?”

“Shit.” Gemma released him immediately. “Yeah, fuck. Sorry. Let’s go.”

Dorian resisted the impulse to grab Gemma, hold him as tight as he clung to Dorian. Instead he followed Gemma as he navigated the darkness of the villa like he owned it. 

Catching up to him, Dorian began casually, “so.” Tension he hadn’t noticed eased in chest when a smile flickered on Gemma’s face. “Who exactly are we running from?”

Gemma swiped his tongue over his bottom lip before clearing his throat and answering. “This isn’t the first of Templars to think the Chantry too lenient.”

Patience wasn’t Dorian’s strong suit, but he mustered some up. Gemma slowed, nudging Dorian towards a wall. He still spoke as he peered around the corner.

“In the early 30s, a group of Templars split off from the Chantry. The Chantry’s control is a bit more tenuous in the Free Marches as you might have gathered.”

“I gathered, yes.” Learning more about Kirkwall had been enlightening. “I can see how that might be concerning.” 

Gemma let out a breathy laugh. “You have no idea. The Templars with us? Circle Templars. Templar Hunters are a whole other breed. The independent cell even more so. They’re fucking feral.”

Dorian followed when Gemma gestured. “You’re quite familiar with them for being… What did you do before--”

“I kill Templars,” Gemma answered instantly, painfully blunt.

Honest.

Present tense.

Dorian was beginning to understand why he lied so much.

“So Sera--”

“One of her people is one of my people.” 

“And the bug--”

“A calosoma.” 

“Which means--”

“Foul smelling beetles. Known as ‘caterpillar hunters’ and ‘searchers’.”

“Clever, aren’t you?”

“Not clever enough,” Gemma bit out. Then he cursed, voice loud and harsh enough Dorian flinched, “fucking shit.”

“You’re taking this very hard.”

“Yeah. I’m going to have to fucking kill my contact. Fuck.”

“If they’re not Chantry Templars--”

“They’re after me, not the Inquisitor.”

“I hate to be the one to inform you, but you are the Inquisitor.”

Gemma snorted. “Trust me when I say if they knew that we wouldn’t be having this conversation because Cassandra would have killed me herself.”

“A bit harsh.”

“Seekers were my specialty.”

“You don’t do things by halves, do you?”

”I just have to hope she is more concerned about them being in Orlais than about why I know who they are.”

“Why did you tell her?”

Gemma jerked to a stop and stared at him blankly. When Dorian didn’t react, he looked around the empty hallway as if confused before furrowing his brow and staring at Dorian again.

“If you escape unnoticed, then you just gave yourself away to Cassandra for no reason. If they do manage to capture or kill you, I suppose it wouldn’t matter.”

Gemma narrowed his eyes and studied him for a long moment before understanding dawned. A slow chilling smile curled his lips. “Do you think I’m running?”

“I may have jumped to that conclusion, yes.”

“Dorain, I’m going to gut those fuckers and the dutiful Seeker is going to help.”

=

Days after the “incident” at Val Royeaux, Dorian still struggled with what he learned. The information made sense, and Dorian easily believed, but when he considered it all, what it meant, the implications to map out… Well, Dorian had some thinking to do.

Despite Gemma’s mild concern, Cassandra did not press him about his familiarity with the Hunters of Tantervale. The flimsy reason of being a Marcher satisfied the Seeker at least for the moment. That alone had Dorian suspicious. Gemma however, accepted her ruling with his head down.

So they left the guts of renegade Templar Hunters splattered on the tiled floor of the Val Royeaux, Cassandra’s expression grim, and Gemma’s solemn. The mirth in his eyes when he met Dorian’s, Maker, Dorian didn’t know what to do with it. By then Dorian should have been used to the lying. He just hadn’t realized the extent of secrets it covered. Yet, that playful smile and little bit of mischief warmed Dorian inside.

What the Seeker didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

The issue Dorian dealt with now was exactly why was Gemma killing Templars before. Chantry Templars. _Seekers._

Yes, yes, Solas gave an ambiguous warning, but the warning also assured Dorian Gemma would answer if asked. While still curious as to what changed, Dorian marveled at trust Gemma now placed in him. Perhaps not his best moment, but Dorian felt an unreasonable amount of resentment Solas was trusted just the same if not more.

Selfishly, Dorian didn’t want anyone else have that closeness with Gemma.

Selfishly, Dorian wanted every piece of Gemma when it was the entire world needed him. 

Movements easy and nimble, Gemma caught Dorian by the wrist and tugged, pulling him close. While not exactly sure which direction he came from, Dorian didn’t waste effort contemplating, not when Gemma was kissing him. Not when one hand splayed over his back, pushing them flush together, and his other cupped Dorian’s jaw.

Every time, every single time, Gemma kissed Dorian like it mattered. When he saw Dorian after they had been apart, hours or days, Gemma would kiss him like it had been years. When they spent long hours in bed, between sheets, sex or just waking up, Gemma kissed him slow and long, causing heat that ran deep. Even just a peck, something quick, it was done as if it was precious. Each time, public or private, Gemma kissed like he was grateful for it.

When they finally part, Dorian doing his best to act casual, and Gemma too open for Dorian to care about causal, Dorian could only laugh.

“You do know there are other ways to greet people, yes?”

“Really?” Gemma said as he nosed along Dorian’s jaw. “I wish you would have told me sooner. I had to kiss Cullen at least three times today. Josie was less of a trial.”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

“Next you’ll tell me I don’t have to fuck people to say goodbye.”

Dorian deliberately did not laugh. Gemma laughed for himself instead, before kissing Dorian’s cheek. Sighing, he dropped his head to Dorian’s shoulder and leaned into him. Automatically, Dorian’s arms went around him, holding him close. In the back of his mind, he wondered how alone they were in this little cloister. The thought was easily chased away by the warmth seeping into him and Gemma kissing along his neck.

“Is there something I can help you with, Inquisitor?”

“Leliana is being mean. Pity me.”

“I’m sure you deserve it.”

“Of course I do, but a little sympathy wouldn’t hurt.”

This time Dorian did laugh. “Come to my quarters and I will give you all the sympathy you want.”

Lifting his head, Gemma raised his chin and met Dorian’s eyes, cocky little smirk on his face. “All the sympathy I want, you say?”

“As much as I can muster,” Dorian promised.

“Well, fuck, Dorian, if I had known that I wouldn’t have made plans to say goodbye to Solas.”

“Do shut up.”

Gemma smiled a little bit more. Ducking his head, he returned his attentions to Dorian’s neck. “Come to the lab,” he murmured, “I’m testing a new method of amalgamation and the results are a little time sensitive.”

Feigning reluctance, Dorian sighed. “How time sensitive?”

“If I don’t cut the current it might explode.”

“Why is it everything you create explodes?”

“Don’t exaggerate, Dorian. Not everything, just most things.”

-

“Ah, lethallin, your timing is excellent as usual.”

Two weeks ago, Dorian stood in this same room, opposite Solas. Two weeks ago, Solas wore his usual dour expression, the slightest bit more disapproving, as if Dorian had been the intruder. He spouted all sorts of nonsense about Dorian not asking for more than he could handle. Overall it had been quite condescending and unnecessary.

Now, however, Solas wore a… was it fondness? Is that what he looked like when he was fond of someone? The point being, he looked less displeased than usual and Dorian was fairly certain it was because of Gemma’s presence.

“Timing is not much trouble as long as you know when you need to be there.”

They exchanged smiles as if it was a clever joke. Maybe it was. Dorian wasn’t one for odd old man humor. Neither of them could be that old, but they both acted like it.

Solas spared Dorian a look, short, but a very cutting reminder of what he said previously. Gemma narrowed his eyes, but Solas returned to tending their equipment. Gemma’s equipment.

Dorian meant to shoot off a witty comment as he was so apt at doing, but Gemma caught his lips. Very purposefully, he kissed Dorian, expertly managing to turn him on in the long seconds before he broke it off.

“Sorry,” Gemma murmured, not sounding sorry at all. In fact, he smirked. “He thinks I’m too nice to you.”

“You’re contributing his argument.”

“I didn’t say I disapproved, Gemma. Don’t be a child.” Despite the scolding words, Solas’s voice sounded unusually humorous. 

“I won’t be long,” Gemma insisted. “Stay?”

“You say that, yet.”

Gemma still smirked.

Very aware he lost before the conversation took place, Dorian sighed. “Where’s my book?”

Without looking up, Solas pointed to the shelves in the corner furthest from the furnace. 

Sometimes Dorian truly did not like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be /especially/ fun


	7. Chapter 7

Natalia Hawke.

Varric spoke her name with more reverence than he did Andraste’s. As many people insisted she had nothing to do with the mage uprising as those who claimed she started it herself. Champion of Kirkwall, lover of a pirate queen, smuggler, apostate long before the rebellion began, by reputation alone Hawke brought a sense of impending doom.

Dorian met her by coincidence, exploring Skyhold, peeking in overgrown side gardens. While not one to balk at dirty deeds or dirty people, the moment he laid eyes on her, he was on edge. Subconsciously, he assessed her as a threat, slowing down to study her.

She reeked of blood magic. 

She couldn’t be walking around like this all the time. No one else commented as far as Dorian heard. Just by the acidic tinge to the air around her, mages, Templars, anyone could have seen, familiar with it or not. No mage, no matter how powerful could possess all of them. Dorian would have felt it.

Yet, there she sat, aura of red permeating the air and flicking pieces of paper at Varric. Distracted from his work, Varric flung them back, apparently unbothered by the ominous magic radiating from his friend.

“I can’t write if you keep tearing up my paper,” Varric failed to properly scold, his smile too obvious. 

Varric smiled differently around her, easier, relaxed, as if he felt safe for the first time since Dorian met him. He raised his eyes to look past her shoulder and to Dorian ambling by.

Hawke scoffed. “Stop showing so much cleavage and I won’t feel compelled to flick paper balls down your shirt.”

“Sparkler! Defend me! I can dress however I want!”

“Oh, I’m just passing by. Do continue your-” Dorian gestured vaguely, “--whatever this is.”

Tipping her head back, Hawke looked at Dorian upside down. When their eyes met, Dorian stiffened and Hawke’s lips formed an “o”.

A ring in her irises gleamed bright red. Hawke straightened up, slid around in her seat, and smiled.

“Dorian, Natalia Hawke. Hawke, Dorian Pavus. Make nice, Hawke.”

“I’m always nice, Varric.” She smiled wider, her canine teeth more pronounced than any human’s should be. 

“Don’t mind her, Sparkler,” Varric reassured him, “she’s always like this.”

“My, that’s concerning.”

Hawke barked a sharp laugh. “Our boy shacked up with a Vint. Figures.”

“If I recall, you shacked up with a V--Tevinter gentleman at one point.”

“If I recall--shut your whore mouth.” Hawke scowled, kicking at his ankle under the table. Then she looked back to Dorian, the red in her irises spreading. “I’m into Rivaini lovers these days.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow. Varric winced. The dwarf opened his mouth, most likely to defuse the situation, but Hawke shoved her chair back and rose to a stand. She did not stand herself, no. Magic raised her and then left her on her feet. Blood magic, effortless and blatant.

“Shit, Hawke. Do you mind?” Varric hissed.

“He’s Tevene. What does he care?” Hawke said, not sparing Varric a glance. Instead she kept a predatory stare locked on Dorian.

“Tevene or not, at least I have good taste enough not to flaunt blood magic in the base of operations for the Inquisition.”

“Feisty.” She clicked her tongue. “I like it.”

“Such a relief to hear. I was so deeply concerned about the personal opinion of someone with such high moral standing as you, Serah Hawke.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Hawke,” Varric warned like someone might their dog. He stood up from his own seat, clearly not confident in her behavior. “Let’s not test the Inquisitor’s goodwill.”

The mention of Gemma seemed to be enough. The intensity of magic dropped, and Hawke rolled her eyes, shifting her attention back to Varric.

“Flyboy don’t give a fuck. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who gave less of a fuck than him.”

“Maybe when you knew him, but he’s the Inquisitor now,” Varric reminded her, enunciating every word carefully, “and a lot of people are watching and listening, so if you don’t mind?”

Dorian hadn’t noticed the droning hum until it cut out. 

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you I don’t love you, Varric.” 

“I wouldn’t believe them if they did.”

Hawke spared Dorian one last look, eyes narrowed, but red gone. “You should ask your Inquisitor how we met. It’s a great story.”

“I’m sure if it was important he would bother telling it.”

Hawke’s laugh came sharper than her glare. “Maybe you’re the thing that is not important enough, hm, Sparkler?”

“Hawke!”

With a wink, Hawke blinked out of sight, residual magic of blood and spite in her wake.

“Dorian--”

Dorian waved off whatever apology Varric had in mind. “Think nothing of it. Truly, one of the kinder things said about the Inquisitor and me in the last week or so.”

“Shit. That’s sad.”

Yes. Yes it was.

=

The next time Dorian met Hawke was under much less pleasant circumstances, at least for Dorian.

She raked her fingers through the Gemma’s hair, leaning against him, chest to chest. Head tipped back, she murmured something that made him laugh. He held her by her hips, met her eyes and said something back. Her laugh for him was so much sweeter than it had been in the garden with Varric and Dorian.

Right up until that point, Dorian never thought about who Gemma might have been with in the past. Flirt by nature, bard by training, talent with his hands, of course Dorian was aware Gemma had people in the past. Seeing him now, with someone else, touching someone else the way he touched Dorian, laughing the way he laughed for Dorian...

Maker, why was he like this? 

Why was Dorian like this?

“Lovely,” Dorian muttered, perfectly content with walking by. Well, not content, but better than confronting the situation like a spurred lover.

Especially considering Dorian hadn’t quite gotten to the point of admitting this might be something where the word “lover” might possibly have meaning beyond having sex. Maybe.

Unfortunately, as he often did, Gemma noticed what others preferred he didn’t. He glanced up from gazing into Hawke’s, presumably not red, eyes to catch Dorian. A devastatingly genuine smile appeared on his face. Perhaps Dorian wrote off blood magic too soon if it meant he could have had Hawke’s little disappearing trick.

Nudging Hawke off of him, Gemma extracted himself from her grip. Dorian kept walking. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Gemma placed his hand on Hawke’s shoulder and guided her forward.

Towards Dorian. Dorian debated walking faster.

But Gemma was smiling.

Sighing, Dorian slowed and curved his path to meet them rather than wait for the oncoming disaster.

“Dorian,” 

Gemma’s hands left Hawke because now he went to Dorian. Catching his wrist, Gemma stepped in close. Ducking his head, he paused a moment, enough to remind Dorian he could walk away, before kissing his cheek. Still close, Gemma pulled away to meet Dorian’s eyes. Swiping his tongue over his bottom lip, Gemma’s eyes went soft and then he smiled. 

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Ah, Inquisitor. I didn’t see you there.”

Gemma laughed. Hawke rolled her eyes. Dorian felt like an ass. For the thinnest sliver of a moment, Dorian thought Gemma might kiss him again.

Instead, he turned to Hawke. Still holding Dorian’s wrist in his hand, Gemma tugged him gently.

“Dorian, this is Natalia. Nat, be nice.”

“I’m always nice.”

“Of course you are,” Gemma agreed instantly.

“Ah, yes, how fortunate for me to be introduced to Serah Hawke a second time.”

“Natalia, did you lie to me?” 

Hawke pursed her lips, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth indicated she hid a smile. “I said I didn’t meet anyone who met that description.”

“Dare I ask the description?”

Gemma turned his eyes from Hawke towards Dorian. “Fortune favors the bold, Dorian.”

“Andraste’s tits, are you flirting? Maker, don’t tell me you haven’t slept with him yet. Considering you, I just assumed.”

“Okay,” Gemma didn’t tell her they had. Dorian didn’t know how he was supposed to feel about it.

“Fi--Inq--What are they calling you?” Hawke squinted at him as if trying to make out a secret. “Trevelyan?”

“Only Cullen calls me that.”

Hawke feigned a scowl. “Why did you have to go and spoil a perfectly good name by letting Cullen say it?”

“I didn’t much care for it.”

“Good, because now it’s ruined. Don’t worry. I’ll get you a new one. How do you like ‘Hawke’?”

“I could warm up to it.”

There Dorian stood, stuck listening to the flirtatious exchange between a blood mage who clearly did not like him and someone Dorian hoped liked him very much. Stuck, because Gemma still held his wrist. Gemma talked to Hawke in a familiar back and forth, while he stroked his thumb up and down Dorian’s inner wrist.

Hawke lowered her voice to a purr. “You do specialize in warm--”

“As much as I’d love to stay and chat, I really must be on my way,” Dorian interrupted a conversation he wasn’t in. “Truly, it’s been a pleasure.”

“Double a pleasure,” Hawke said, smile like a razorblade.

Gemma didn’t relinquish his hold. Dorian looked pointedly to where Gemma’s hand wrapped around his wrist to Gemma’s face. Gemma, however, was looking at Hawke. While disgusted with the situation and himself, Dorian had too much pride to yank himself free.

“Tonight?”

Hawke tapped her chin as if thinking. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Unphased, Gemma quirked a half smile. “I await your word with bated breath.”

Belatedly, Dorian realized Gemma intended to go wherever it was Dorian was going. This was a problem firstly because Dorian wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about Gemma at the moment. Second, Dorian had no idea where he was going.

Too late, Gemma let go off Dorian’s wrist to splay his hand against his lower back. As if Hawke already left, Gemma turned all of his focus onto Dorian, ushering him towards a side door. Ah yes, the door to the tower where Gemma’s quarters were, apparently Gemma didn’t care where Dorian was going or maybe he knew Dorian didn’t know where Dorian was going.

Dorian suspected it was the latter. Before he could find it in himself to argue, Gemma was speaking low and urge.

“One minute, Dorian. I need one minute before you go.”

Considering how bitterly opposed it a moment ago, Dorian gave in much too easily. “Oh this should be interesting.”

Gemma’s smile was tight. He opened the door, ushered Dorian ahead of him, and then shut it without a glance back. 

In what he thought of as very patient, Dorian leaned against the banister of the dusty tower, arched an eyebrow and waited. Gemma looked him up and down, face hard, scrutinizing him as if suspicious. Dorian remained nonplussed. After a long moment, his features softened and he hung his head.

“Just.” Gemma rubbed the back of his neck and sighed before looking at Dorian apologetically. “Just don’t be around her alone.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly what Dorian expected. “Why? What would she do?”

“That’s the issue,” Gemma admitted quietly, “I don’t know.”

A beat passed before Dorian spoke. He ended up sounding more sarcastic than amused. Still, it was better than upset. “And here I thought you two were the best of friends.”

Gemma winced. “It’s not that simple.”

“Please, enlighten me.”

“Shit, Dorian, can you just--”

“Trust you?”

For a moment, Dorian thought Gemma might say “yes, trust me,” but instead he looked away and shrugged. 

Walking away, Dorian assured himself he wasn’t bothered.

-

Varric was apparently of the same opinion.

“Look, Sparkler, I love Hawke. She’d tear apart the world for those she deemed worthy. She’s loyal beyond the point of sanity. Once she claims you, you're hers.”

“As much as I appreciate what I can tell is going to be a warning--

“Just hear me out, okay?”

Although Dorian preferred a bit less weighty words, he nodded once to allow Varric his grave concern. Varric gave him a glum half smile in appreciation before looking away to gather himself. He let out a long breath and sighed before starting.

“I didn’t know they knew each other. Shit, I didn’t really know anything about the Inquisitor that anybody else could tell you. But I know Hawke. And I know the kinds of things she was doing in Rivain I know the kinds of people she worked with to do them.”

Despite his impulse to argue with a point he didn’t yet know, Dorian forced himself quiet.

“They weren’t good people, Sparkler. They were bad people. They were ‘blow up Chantries, publicly execute Templars’ type people. They were ‘assassinate Grand Clerics and light lyrium shipments up at the docks’ type people.”

“What are you trying to say, Varric?”

“I think you know.”

-

The third time he met Hawke was somehow better than the second. Still, Dorian would have rather avoided it. He supposed he should be grateful she chose to do it late at night should either of them decide to make a scene.

Hawke made a point of stepping into his space, leaning her shoulder right against the shelf where he searched. She watched him with the intensity of her namesake. Dorian made a point not to acknowledge her.

“‘The Maker is taking a piss on me’,” Hawke used the same turn of phrase Gemma did the day Dorian asked him if he was Andrastian. “He said that to me once. So much melodrama with him, but ya know, now I see it. The Firefly of Rivain dying for a god he tried to tear down.”

“The Firefly of Rivain? Interesting title,” Dorian said with as much levity as he could manage, sliding out a book and inspecting the first page.

Considering all the warnings and the aura of evil surrounding her, Natalia Hawke did not make levity easy.

“I don’t like you, Sparkler.” 

Such charm. 

Dorian closed the book and replaced it. “You don’t seem very taken with me, no.”

“You don’t like me,” she challenged.

“You don’t make it easy to like you.”

“Maybe if you knew me better,” she taunted, smile all teeth.

Since Varric breathed her name, since Gemma froze at the mention of her, since Dorian first saw her on the battlements and then in passing at Adamant, Dorian knew the kind of person she was. One did not need blood magic for their soul to be black.

“I’ve met enough mages like you to know I would rather not.”

As if the claim preposterous, Hawke laughed. “You think you know mages like me? Do you think me drunk on the power of blood magic? Do you compare me to your magisters? I didn’t need blood magic to kill Danarius and I don’t need it to kill you, atlus.”

“You killed Danarius?” Dorian asked, curiosity overtaking apprehension. “Gossip said his slave--”

“Fenris is not a slave,” Hawke snarled, slamming her fist into the bookcase hard enough it clattered.

Dorian stared. Hawke tore her eyes away to glare at the ground. She drew a sharp breath and then let it out in a hiss. When she raised her chin, her eyes burned, but there was no red to be seen.

Next she spoke, it was calmer, more controlled, but just as venomous. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, or what the fuck he sees in you that he’s put this much of himself out there, but if you fuck this up, I will--”

“What? Punish me? Kill me? Tell me, oh great and terrible Hawke.” 

By then, Dorian was done with Hawke. He did not care what her past was or what her place was in Gemma’s, what her claims were or how she saw herself, Dorian knew people like her.

“I will change you, Dorian Pavus,” Hawke swore. “You changed him. You made him weak. If you take advantage of that I will change you in much worse ways."

=

The Firefly of Rivain.

As obnoxious, ridiculous, and over dramatic as his little conversation with Hawke was, Dorian did at least get one useful thing out of it. A hint, so to speak, Dorian assumed it intentional. How could he not take it and run? Perhaps if he was anyone less curious, someone with a little more wariness to him, he would have let it lie.

He would have asked Gemma, but Solas had oh-so-courteously warned him against it.

What other option did Dorian have, but to search out the answers himself? With that little bit to go on, Dorian began. It went… easier than expected. Once his first question was answered, the rest came in a rush he could not stop. It was like finding the first body in a mass grave.

_“‘If you wish to know him, I hope you are able to live with what you learn,’ is clear enough, yes?”_

_“Lack of knowledge does no one good, Solas.”_

_“Dirthara-ma, Dorian.”_

-

“You were a terrorist,” Dorian said quietly. He hadn’t meant it as a question, or an accusation, but even he heard it in his voice.

Holding the test tube up to the sunlight, Gemma squinted at the liquid. He didn’t bother looking at Dorian to answer. “Hawke tell you that?” A smile ghosted over his lips. “I suppose I still am one. Don’t think I’m allowed to just up and quit.”

“Why?” Dorian honestly wondered.

For the first time since Dorian entered his lab, Gemma spared him a glance. “Why do you think?”

“According to the Chantry, you were bent on destroying it.”

He laughed in genuine humor. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

“What possible reason would you have for killing so many people? For killing innocent people? Revenge? Your activities started far before the Annulment of the Dairsumd Circle. What could have motivated you to… to commit such atrocities?”

Gemma did not react to the reference of his slaughtered kin. “‘Activities’. Not sure I like that word. Doesn’t have the same effect as ‘resistance and systematic destruction.” He replaced the tube in the rack and picked up a caliper. “‘Atrocities’ is more accurate, yeah.”

He plucked a pryorite chip from a bowl to examine it.

“Answer me,” Dorian demanded.

This time when Gemma laughed it was less amused and more sarcastic. “Why do you think, Dorian? You’re a smart lad. Fucking use your head.”

“If I knew--”

“You know why,” Gemma snapped, temper finally flaring, “why are you so motivated to right the wrongs in Tevinter? You see injustice and you wish to abolish it.”

“I wish to improve! You--you’re just killing people! How could such violent means bring about improvement?”

“Maybe you’re not that smart after all.”

“Why? Because I see potential? Because I see an opportunity for positive change instead of destruction?”

Setting his tools aside, Gemma spun on his stool to face him. “Do you think yourself better than me because you believe you can redeem your Magisterium from within?”

“I can try.”

“Fuck, Dorian,” Gemma’s voice wavered. “I hope you succeed. I hope you can succeed where hundreds failed here. You stand on the edge of this change, in a position revolutionaries dream of. I hope for your sake you never have to face the reality some things cannot be changed for the better.” 

“Did you really believe it so hopeless?” Dorian realized how stupid the question was before he finished saying it, but the words were out and it was too late.

Yet Gemma replied gently. “Why do you think the mages rebelled? The oppressor will never willingly give freedoms to the oppressed. They must take it.”

When Dorian didn’t answer right away, Gemma lowered his eyes to his lap and stared at empty hands. 

His voice broke as he spoke, “I hope you never have to confront your ideals. If the day ever comes you realize some institutions cannot, should not be changed but be destroyed, I hope with every damn left in me it comes before you lose everything.”

Still desperately searching for something less mad than Gemma admitted to being, Dorian asked, “is that what happened to you?”

Raising his head to Dorian, Gemma looked at him with soft eyes and a sad smile. “ I was never as good as you. I know you, Dorian. You would never take my route. You could never live with yourself.”

“Of that we can at least agree.”

#

“I fucked up,” Gemma muttered to himself. 

As he often did, Gemma had, in fact, fucked up. He would blame Leliana, but generally speaking, Leliana never fucked up so signs pointed to Gemma’s fuck up being Gemma’s fault. He would blame Hawke, but she was absolutely right in that if he was in this deep it was either get out now or go deeper. Hawke didn’t give him away. Gemma had done that all himself.

He wasn’t quite at the point of admitting Solas was right, however. 

Shit. Solas.

Shit.

Yes, Solas had warned him being honest with Dorian would not go well. Gemma easily agreed. Gemma expected the worst. He expected Dorian to be angry, judgmental, hateful, and very possibly rat him out. Although Solas had been wary of it, Gemma knew Dorian well enough to be mostly certain he wouldn’t blackmail him with exposure, attempt to kill him, or some other third thing Gemma didn't bother thinking through.

What Gemma hadn’t expected was the absolute devastation on Dorian’s face. What kind of person felt like that? Felt so intensely for the lives of strangers? Wait, no, that was wrong. A lot of people felt that way. Gemma used to feel that way.

Dorian looked at Gemma as if Gemma betrayed him. He looked at him as if Gemma killed his own children in front of him. Okay, yeah, children had died during certain operations. Gemma winced. A lot of children. Children went to Chantries. What was he supposed to do, evacuate the children then bomb the everloving shit out of it? Shit. This was not going well even in his own head.

To be fair, rarely did things go well in his head.

Which was how he ended up in this particular predicament. Gemma used his head and it didn’t go well. 

He could easily imagine Dorian’s response. He would say Gemma hadn’t fucked up in telling him his past, but in committing the acts he had. 

The crux of the issue was Gemma didn’t regret most of those actions. He still believed in them. In the reason. And given the chance he would blow up a those Chantries again. He would provide the formula to Anders again. He would pour resources into the Mage Underground. He would make that smuggling deal with Isabela again. He would publicly execute those Templars again.

He would kill each of those four Seekers again and again. 

The problem was Dorian wanted to believe in a redemption for Gemma and Gemma didn’t think he needed one.

Shit.

Fuck.

Dorian. Alright, he could fix this.

It took more self control than Gemma would have expected to keep himself from going to Dorian too soon. Three hours, he promised himself. Come the three hours, he forced himself to wait a fourth. An empty sentiment, but he managed.

Exactly how he expected, Gemma found Dorian in his room, drunk in a way he hadn’t been since the day at the Gull & Lantern. Somewhere in the back of his head was a memory of him self satisfied for turning someone inside out over him.

He never meant that for Dorian. It never mattered he wasn’t that person anymore until Dorian.

Shit. 

Gemma shut the door with a solid thud, doing his best to make certain Dorian noticed him. Even if he didn’t hear, Dorian should have expected him. Then again, from the very beginning Dorian didn’t expect a lot of what Gemma did. How could he have?

Although he let out a small sound, a bitter laugh if Gemma had to name it, Dorian did not rise to meet him. He didn’t turn his head to look. Like a man to an execution, Gemma approached where Dorian sat slumped on his couch. A capped bottle lay next to him in anticipation of finishing the one cradled in the crook of his arm.

He flinched when Gemma reached down. Gemma didn’t. Pulling the bottle free, Gemma raised it in a mock toast before tipping his head back and draining it. If it had a flavor Gemma couldn’t taste it. He set on the end table once done. With Dorian’s eyes on him, Gemma snagged a different one at the ready and then flopped on the armchair across from him.

Any other night, Dorian would have groused over Gemma stealing all his liquor despite Gemma being the one who gifted it to him.

Instead, Dorian said, “you killed them.” 

Yeah, he had. 

Expression open and wrecked, desolate, the last flicker of hope dying, Dorian said, “you killed them and you aren’t even sorry.”

Gemma shrugged and looked away. Meeting Dorian’s eyes turned his stomach. Using his penknife, Gemma uncorked the bottle. There was a story to this knife, one that involved a plucked duck and a murdered mistress. There was another story to this knife, one with poison and the screams of villagers.

“They were innocent people!” 

There was the anger. Gemma closed his eyes and breathed in relief. He drank.

“How many,” Dorian asked, voice wavering just the slightest, “how many innocent people did you kill?”

For this, Gemma lowered the bottle and met his eyes. “There are no innocent bystanders in oppression, Dorian. To be complaisant in oppression is to be complicit in it."

“Tell me!” Dorian demanded. He shoved himself upright, struggling in his state. “Damn you, tell me.”

“Why would I know that? What’s it matter?”

“What’s it--” Dorian nearly choked on his words. “ _What’s it matter?_ ”

Replaying the words in his head, Gemma winced. “That’s not what I meant. Dorian--”

“What did you mean than?” 

Now Dorian stood. He dragged his hands through his hair rough enough he would have complained had Gemma. The thought should not have hurt.

“What could you have possibly meant that would make this better?”

Nothing. Nothing could make this better.

Gemma couldn’t fix this.

“Knowing the number doesn’t change what I did,” he said quietly, “doesn’t make it better or worse. It isn’t about the lives taken. It’s what the act represents.”

“You believe that? People--they mean that little to you?”

Gemma did not reply. He drank.

“Maker,” Dorian’s shallow laugh bordered hysterical. “You’re not even a mage.” 

“It’s not about mages, Tevene,” and oh, Gemma hated himself as he said it, “it’s about being a person.”

“You’re a bastard,” Dorian hissed.

Gemma was a bastard, both literally and figuratively. He could not be gentle in the face of such absolute truths. His very nature refused it. Gemma did not compromise. Gemma was not kind.

He would never coddle Dorian. This was better. Anger was better. This, Gemma could handle this. 

“You think yourself better than me,” Gemma forced a small smile to his face, the kind he gave to Dorian when they spoke back at Haven. A lie. “But I don’t think I could live with myself if I was as content as you to sit while others knelt.”

For a moment Dorian just stared at him brow furrowed, watching as Gemma took a longer drink. 

Quietly, less angry than Gemma wanted, Dorian said, "Change should not be paid for in the blood of the innocent."

Gemma smiled over the bottle, as pitying as it was cutting. "Why not? Tevinter spills blood and kills souls everyday to maintain its Magisterium. Whatever 'progress' you might make will never change its foundation. Corpses for bricks, blood for mortar." 

"What about you?" Dorian said the question like an accusation, throwing his hand out in a wild gesture, "are you that much of a hypocrite? You criticize Tevinter yet look at all the death you've caused!"

Gemma laughed before he could stop himself. Something close to hurt flickered over Dorian's features.

"I am not founding, not building or rectifying. I mean to tear it all down. Leave the rest to the idealist who would rather talk than sully their hands."

Losing the edge to his tone, too tired to fake a sneer in the face of Dorian's innate goodness, his noble unrealistic ideals, Gemma looked at him with a sadness he didn't have a right to.

More a lesson than the resignation he spoke to Solas, Gemma said, "I don’t expect to win. I just intend to do as much damage as I can before I die."

This time Dorian laughed, but with no amusement, just terrible desperation. " _Gemma_."

Looking at the bottle in his hands, Gemma capped it. Slowly, as if he needed that time, as if his body ached like his mind, Gemma rose to a stand. He set the bottle aside, almost empty, and then raised his eyes to Dorian, standing there with heartbreak on his face.

Perhaps he knew it would be the last time, or maybe he no longer thought it mattered, but Dorian didn't step away when Gemma approached him. Closer than Gemma thought he'd be allowed, he stood near enough their foreheads almost touched and their breaths mingled. 

Dorian closed his eyes and lowered his head. Leaning in, Gemma paused for a moment before kissing his cheek softly. Despite how Gemma willed it, the slight contact, the little gesture would never be enough to tell Dorian what he meant to him. Dorian would never know what he cost Gemma, never understand how fragile he made him.

How Gemma couldn't even regret it.

Kind in a way he never managed with anyone else, Gemma spoke gently. "When this is over, when you go back to Tevinter, remember what Solas said. How sorry are you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao

**Author's Note:**

> hey kids. 1. leliana pov is exclusive to the first scene. The rest of the fic will be dorian and inquisitor 2. there will be mentions of ocs. unlikely to show up as far as I've planned. 3. boss bitch hawke will be appearing because I love every hawke that loves varric and I cannot resist 4. inquisitor is already a tempest in this. the training is more a game mechanic anyway. 5. explicit for later chapters 6. thanks for playing


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